by Shain Carter
"I guess that kid was down here crying to you. I'm not changing his grade."
"That kid?” Tilden’s face reddened. “Do you have any idea who that kid is? Who that kid's uncle is? Leonard Duncan, for Christ's sake! And no, he wasn't down here crying about his grade. He went straight to Dean Burns. He's met the Dean several times, at dinners hosted by Uncle Leonard. At these dinners, Dean Burns told him he likes him. He told him to call him Ron. He also told him that if he ever needed help with anything to give him a call, which is exactly what he did. Then 'Ron' called me to find out what the hell we're doing down here, failing some poor engineering student who’s trying as hard as he can in a subject that he'll never use again in his life. Use a little common sense, Jones, just a little bit of judgment. We’re talking about Leonard Duncan's nephew, for Christ's sake."
Tilden paused to catch his breath. Jones stared expressionless at him. "I'm not changing his grade,” he repeated.
"You're damn right you're not changing his grade. Burns sent me Duncan’s final exam and I personally reviewed it. I gave him a B, both for the final and for the course."
The two men glared at one another for several seconds before Jones replied. "Well Frank, thanks for sharing that with me. Is there anything else, or can I get back to my duties?"
"As a matter of fact, there is something else,” Tilden replied, his tone immediately softening. He smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I actually didn't call you in to discuss Duncan's grade. Please, sit down. I want to talk to you about your plans for this summer."
“What plans?” Dawson asked.
A voice came from behind Dawson’s shoulder. "The plans I’ve made for you, Professor."
With a start Dawson realized he and Tilden were not alone in the room. He spun around to find a tall, skinny man in his early thirties standing in the corner. His short blond hair was parted down the middle, framing the large wire rimmed glasses he had pushed far up into the bridge of his nose. But his most prominent feature was the pair of enormous ears sticking out of either side of his head. The man flashed a toothy, nervous smile to Jones.
Jones did not smile back. "Burt Singleton, what the hell are you doing here?" Jones’ voice was flat and void of any emotion. The words visibly unnerved the younger man, but he quickly composed himself, smiled again, more tentatively this time, and stuck out his hand.
"It's good to see you too, Professor Jones. What’s it been, five years?" He grabbed Dawson’s hand and pumped it vigorously.
It had actually been almost eight years. The last time Jones had seen Burt Singleton was the day Burt graduated, when he stopped by the office to get Jones to sign one last form and to say goodbye. Burt was Jones' last graduate student, and things hadn't gone well between them. Jones could only barely tolerate Singleton’s naïve, country-boy manner. He was always grinning and bobbing his head up and down at the slightest provocation. To make matters worse, he had no confidence in what he did. It seemed that every time Burt measured a data point he needed to be told what it meant and how to proceed. Somehow, though, Burt managed to complete all the requirements for a Ph.D., wrote his thesis, and graduated. He left for Washington DC, where he took a job with the Environmental Protection Agency in their analytical chemistry department.
Burt released Dawson’s hand and they sat uneasily in chairs in front of Tilden’s desk. Tilden spoke first.
“Burt has been telling me about an ideal research opportunity he found for you this summer. Right up your alley. And the best part is it gets you out of town for the three most miserable months of the year and gets you out of having to teach remedial chemistry this summer.”
“That’s right, Professor,” Burt interjected. “I’ve been approached by a very wealthy individual who wants to do some private research. I’m recruiting a small team of scientists for him, and you are an obvious choice.”
“And why is that?” Jones asked.
“Well, part of what he wants to do involves green flame chemistry, and, let’s face it, you’re the one and only expert left in the field.”
“Green flame chemistry.” Jones repeated the words slowly. It had been years since he had said them, since he had even heard them. “Absolutely out of the question. I have no interest at all in ever doing green flame research again. You know that.” He stood. "Nice seeing you again, Burt. Don’t be such a stranger."
“Just a minute,” Tilden spoke quickly. “Hear Burt out, Dawson, you might want to change your mind.”
“Actually,” Singleton continued, almost apologetically, “there’s really not that much more I can tell you right now, except that the research will be out of the country, that you really are the only man for the job, and that this is an extremely important program. You could easily make the difference between success and failure, Dr. Jones. And believe me, if you are successful, the whole world will know it. That’s not an overstatement - this program could affect everyone on Earth. Everyone. It could potentially advance our state of technology by hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. Instantly. I’d like you to come with me tomorrow to meet Derek Becker, the man who’s calling the shots. He’ll give you the details that I can’t.”
Jones shook his head and started for the door.
“Wait, Dawson,” Tilden called to him, “if you do this, then I might be willing to decrease your teaching load next fall. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Jones turned back toward the two men. “O. K.,” he said. “You’ve got my attention.”
“Great,” Burt began. “I can pick you up tomorrow…”
Jones interrupted him. “I didn’t mean you got my attention, Burt - Frank did. I want to know why this means so much to him.” He turned to Tilden. “Sure, a summer away would be as nice a break for you as it would be for me, but there’s got to be more to it than that if you’re going to reduce my teaching load next semester. Just why are you so eager that I take this job?”
Tilden seemed taken aback by the question. He cleared his throat and looked down at his desk as if in search of an answer there. It was Burt, however, who broke the silence.
“A million dollars, Professor Jones,” Burt said, giggling nervously. “Derek Becker will give the chemistry department a one-million dollar unrestricted grant if he can borrow you for a few months.”
“A million dollars for three months of my time?” Jones’ voice was incredulous.
“Well, it’ll be more like four or five months, but you are definitely the man we want,” Singleton replied eagerly.
“Four or five months!” Dawson exploded. “Four or five months! That means I won’t be back in time to teach the fall semester anyway, doesn’t it Frank? What a sweetheart you were going to be, cutting back on my teaching load. You couldn’t make me teach those classes even if you wanted to. Anything else you want to tell me about this deal?”
Before Tilden could answer, the phone on his desk rang. They could hear Tina pick up the extension in her office and almost immediately the intercom on Tilden's desk buzzed.
“Professor Tilden, it’s Mrs. Tilden.”
Tilden leaned over and pressed a button on the intercom. “Thanks Tina, tell Linda I’ll call her back in a minute.” He looked up at Jones. “Don’t forget it’s a great deal for you, too. Don’t turn this down just to punish me. All we’re asking right now is that you just think about it, keep an open mind. You don’t need to give us a final answer right here. Now, on a separate subject - could I talk you into changing your mind about coming over tonight? Linda would really like the whole department there, and you’re the only holdout.”
As department chair, Tilden had several social obligations. One of them was hosting an annual end-of-the-school-year party at his house for the entire department faculty and graduating Ph.D. candidates. Dawson had not been since one particularly memorable party four years before.
Jones looked puzzled. “Linda wants me there? What on earth for?”
“You know how wives can be, Dawson. For some reason she thinks it
’s important that everyone comes this time, and since it’s important to her, it’s important to me. Just come over for a few minutes, then leave if you want. That’s not too much to ask, is it? I’ll owe you.”
“We’ll,” Jones replied uncertainly, “if that’s really what she wants. But I’m not staying long.”
“Thanks, Dawson, Linda will be thrilled. See you at eight o’clock.”
As Jones left he glanced down at Burt and muttered, “Good luck with that program”. Burt started to follow Jones our, but Tilden motioned for him to stay.
Tina wasn’t in the outer office, and as Jones passed by her desk he reached over her desk and pushed a button on the intercom. Tilden’s voice, nearly incredulous, came from it.
“Listen, Burt, I don’t want to second guess your judgment - especially since this is going to be a really good thing for the department - but are you really sure Jones is the guy you want? Perhaps there’s another professor that …”
Burt cut Tilden off. “No, Professor. Jones is absolutely the man I need for this job. It’s him or no one.”
The reply caught Jones by surprise - not so much Burt’s words, but the way he said them, with a cool confidence that Jones had never heard in him before.
Chapter Two
Dawson checked his watch as his taxi pulled up to the Tildens’ house. Exactly eight o’clock, he noted with some satisfaction. Miguel fumbled with some papers in the front seat, then pushed a clipboard and pen back to Dawson. He initialed Miguel’s entry and passed the clipboard back.
"What time you want me back, Boss?" Miguel asked.
"I won't be long,” Dawson replied, climbing out of the car. "You might as well stay in the neighborhood unless you get another call."
As Jones approached the house he heard music - something classical - and lots of voices. Dawson paused at the door, straightened his shirt, then rang the bell. A short, tired looking woman opened the door and beckoned him to enter. Must be a new maid, Dawson thought; then he realized, she might not be all that new. It had been four years, after all.
Dawson followed the woman into the living room. Just looking around he guessed that there were at least thirty people in the house and probably that many more in the back yard. He couldn't imagine what his presence might add, least of all to Linda Tilden. He made a mental note to be sure she saw him before he left, something he would have to make an effort at, considering the number of people there.
Jones plunged into the crowd and worked his way through the living room to the game room, where he knew the Tildens kept their bar. A few people nodded to him as he came through, but for the most part the guests were too absorbed in their own conversations to give Dawson much notice. A loud crowd was gathered in front of the bar, so Dawson came to it from the side. To his relief there was a liter bottle of gin on the near corner. It was less than a quarter full, but he wasn’t going to stay long. Jones grabbed it and looked for a glass. All the clean ones were well out of reach on the far side of the counter, but there were a few used glasses on a tray in front of him. He grabbed the closest one, dumped its contents into another glass, and headed to a quiet spot by the fireplace.
Jones glanced around the room leisurely while he drained his first glass of gin. Across the room he saw Tilden speaking with his wife. Linda was a tall, tanned woman with short hair colored a wholly unnatural shade of red. She seemed perturbed and gestured animatedly in his general direction as they spoke. Well, Jones thought, now she’s seen me. He turned around and refilled his glass, carefully placing the bottle on the mantle afterwards. It was a broad, wide mantle, but the only other thing on it tonight was a single framed photo of the Tilden’s son, Tom, with his wife and two children. He was a missionary somewhere in Asia, Jones recalled. He picked up the picture and absently studied it as he drank.
After a few minutes Jones felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw it was Linda.
"Hello, Professor. How are you this evening?"
"Oh, good evening,” he stammered. “How nice to see you. I was just looking at this picture of Tom’s family. Very nice."
Jones carefully put the picture back on the mantel, then unconsciously put his hand in his pocket and stepped away from the fireplace. He stood uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other.
"Listen, Linda, I never really got a proper chance to tell you how sorry I was about what happened last time. Your father’s urn… it was a complete accident - someone must have bumped me, I fell into the mantel and..."
“No one was near you. You were drunk and lost your balance.”
Linda glared at Jones, who dropped his gaze to the floor.
“I was surprised when Frank told me today that you’d be coming,” Linda continued. “He said you were in a social mood, yet here you are, all by yourself.”
“Social mood?” Dawson repeated. “No, I came here because you wanted me to.”
A look of surprise came over Linda’s, and her face began to redden. For a moment she was speechless.
“Why on Earth …” she began, and then stopped abruptly. In a puzzled voice she asked if Dawson was wearing lipstick. He followed her gaze to the glass he was holding. For the first time he noticed a bright red smear around the rim. He felt his ears burn but kept his voice even.
“No, I put my glass down to use the bathroom. Someone else - a woman - must have mistaken it for her own and taken a drink from it.”
“Yes, of course.” Linda’s voice was doubtful. Her face was still flush, and she opened her mouth to speak again, but didn’t get the chance. Burt Singleton happened by and put his hand on Jones’ shoulder.
“Mrs. Tilden,” Burt said, “you don’t mind if I borrow Professor Jones for a minute, do you? He and I have a little business we need to talk over.”
Linda glanced from Burt to Dawson, then spun around and stormed across the room. The two men silently watched her go.
“That woman is absolutely incomprehensible,” Dawson said, refilling his glass. “But I guess that’s Frank’s problem, not mine. I suppose you want to talk about this green flame nonsense. They answer is still no.”
“It’s not nonsense. I just want a chance to prove that to you. What can I say to make you give me that chance?”
“What can I say to make you realize that I won’t ever take up green flame chemistry again?”
“I’m not asking you to commit to anything long term right now, just to come out to Montana with me tomorrow to meet Derek Becker. Spend the night at his ranch and come back the next day. After that, if you want to stick to your guns about the green flame research then that’s fine, but at least give us a fair chance. Besides, you look like you could use a break from this place.”
Jones leaned against the wall and took a long drink. Burt was right about it being a good time to get away from campus, even if just for a couple of days. It had been a while since he had gotten out of town, and the thought of another hot summer stuck teaching remedial chemistry to incoming freshmen was not appealing. A short break before then would definitely be welcomed. Jones glanced across the room and caught site of Frank Tilden looking back at him expectantly. Frank had the means to make Dawson’s life even more miserable than it already was, if he had a reason, and not even making the effort to meet this millionaire of Singleton’s would, Jones thought, give Frank that reason.
Dawson tipped back his glass, emptying it completely, and put it on the mantle. He drew a deep breath before responding to Burt.
“As long as you know up front that this is a lost cause, and you’re still willing to have me come out, then I’ll come out.”
Burt grabbed Dawson’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Great,” he enthused, “it’s a deal. I was really hoping you'd agree to see Derek. I knew you’d do it. I promised Derek I’d get you there and I will. Now, I’ve already taken care of all the arrangements. We’ll fly out in the morning around eight. You won’t be sorry you went - I think you’ll really enjoy meeting Derek and the others and seeing what the progra
m is all about.”
Dawson pulled his arm away from Burt. “Fine,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving.”
Burt checked his watch. “Me, too. Can I offer you a lift back to your apartment?”
Dawson shook his head. He’d be seeing more than his fill of Burt over the next few days as it was. “Thanks, anyway,” he said, “but I still have my arrangement with Yellow Cab, and Miguel’s waiting for me.”
“Eight o’clock, then, at the airport. And don’t be late.”
Burt slapped his hand hard on Dawson’s back, flashed him a thumbs-up and disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Three
Dawson woke the next morning with the distinct feeling that he had made a mistake. He had no intention of resuming green flame research under any circumstances, so spending the summer out of town on Burt’s little program was out of the question. And while spending the next couple of days away from campus sounded nice, he doubted it would be worth the effort, especially if it meant meeting people and having to be social around them. He debated about not even showing up at the airport, but in the end decided that going through the motions with Burt would be less unpleasant than not going at all - Tilden would make sure of that.
Miguel was on time, as always, and they arrived at the airport promptly at seven-thirty. Like many regional airports, Rogers Field was serviced by a single commuter carrier. SouthAir had two outgoing flights each day, one a few minutes past eight in the morning, and the other at three in the afternoon.
Dawson scanned the lobby for Burt as he walked in. Not seeing him, he walked over to the counter and gave the agent his name. She checked her computer, then shook her head. "I'm sorry Mr. Jones. I don't seem have a reservation for you."
He asked her to check her list for Burt, but he wasn’t on it, either. After a few more clicks the agent told him that the flight was full and all passengers had checked in. Dawson thanked her and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Now he could tell Frank with a clear conscience that he had tried, but Burt had somehow messed up the reservations. Humming softly to himself Dawson slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder and hurried back towards the door. With any luck he’d be able to catch Miguel before he left.
