Archform Beauty

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  I went home and ate. Tuesday, I was up early, practiced an hour, and made it to the university by ten to get ready for Synsil's lesson and my music appreciation class. I'd barely draped my shawl over the coat rack—it was still too cold not to wear something and too warm for a coat—when the system announced, Incoming from Ted Haraldsen, office of Senator Elden Cannon.

  What did he want? Would he have an explanation of what happened on Friday? Accept. I flicked on the half-sized holo projection. Ted Haraldsen was tall and thin and blond, another version of the senator.

  "Professor Cornett? This is Ted Haraldsen from Senator Cannon's office. The senator asked me to give you a call.”

  "Yes?" What did Senator Cannon want from me? I didn't feel like being chased around the piano, even indirectly by one of his aides.

  "The Senate passed the education legislation last week and sent it to the Executive. Yesterday, the Executive signed the bill. The new law will establish a grant program for music demonstration programs. It also establishes a pilot program at UDenv.” The aide actually grinned at me. "I'll be sending the details to you, but you should know that the language effectively establishes you as the administrator of a two-million-credit pilot program.”

  I couldn't help swallowing. Me?

  "We'll also be sending a copy of this to the university. Is there anyone who should get a copy besides President Hinckle?"

  "Dean Wharton Donald is the dean of the College of Arts and Humanities.”

  "Wharton Donald? I'll make sure he gets a copy, too. Do you have any questions?"

  Questions? I had more than a few, but not the kind I could ask. "Uh… I probably will, but this was a surprise to me.”

  "I understand. I'll leave my codes if you have questions.”

  After he finished, I just looked at the blank holo projection for a good three minutes before I remembered to collapse it. Me? The head of a grant program with a bigger budget than the entire music section of the college? Because I'd had the nerve to stand up to a senator?

  I shivered. Standing up to him had almost gotten me killed.

  I printed out what the senator's office had sent and read through it. The language about the administrator of the initial pilot program at UDenv was very specific, yet in a general way. The way it was written, there wasn't anyone else at the university who could be the administrator, but it didn't actually name me.

  I read through it all a second time. The words didn't change.

  Incoming from Dean Wharton Donald.

  I debated for a moment. Accept.

  "Professor Cornett, I just heard about your success in landing a major grant program for the university. Both President Hinckle and I are so pleased, and I wanted to let you know that you will be receiving full contract status, beginning immediately.”

  Once more, I wasn't quite sure what to say. Why full contract? Then I understood. Program administrators had to be full-time contract professors or administrators, and the pilot program was a five-year grant. I'd bet my contract would be for five years as well. "Thank you, Dean Donald. I had talked about the problem of needing more music demonstrations to Senator Cannon. I have to say I'm pleased that he listened.” Then I lied. "He said he wanted someone with my background to handle the first pilot program, and I'm certainly looking forward to it.”

  "Oh… so are we. It's quite a well-funded program. Quite well funded.”

  "I'm looking forward to working out the details with you, Dean Donald. The senator wanted this to be a very hands-on demonstration program.” I hoped my smile wasn't too forced. "His staff asked me who besides the president should know, and I insisted that you should also be notified.” I managed not to gag at that. It was true.

  "I am most appreciative of your concern, Professor Cornett. Perhaps we could meet later in the week.”

  "I'd be more than happy to meet. What about Friday morning?"

  We agreed on eleven on Friday, and he offered three more congratulations before saying good-bye. I just sat there. I was certain that Dean Donald was intimating to the president, without actually claiming it, that the program had been the result of his wisdom in retaining me at a time of financial shortfalls.

  He could have that.

  With a full-time contract position, I might actually be able to reclaim the Altimus from Raymon's garage and use it at times. Then I wouldn't always have to take the shuttle. I might be able to enjoy a few more small luxuries in life—like speaking out once in a while. I might even have time for some sort of a social life—if I could find anyone who still looked for beauty in the arts.

  Chapter 53

  Parsfal

  Monday came, and I'd done nothing about the professor. But I kept thinking about her. Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, after writing out the lines I'd agonized over all morning on a plain white card, I took personal time, and headed for her office. According to the university class schedule, she was there. I hoped she was.

  I made a stop. The flowers were roses, and real, and very expensive. I didn't care.

  The university's gates accepted my NetPrime ID. I had to ask directions to the Fine Arts building, but I managed to find it.

  When I got near her office, I could hear someone singing. Then the singing stopped, and resumed, and stopped again. I didn't know too much, but she was clearly giving a lesson. So I found a bench a ways down the hall and sat down. My palms were damp.

  Was I insane? No… life was too short, and the beauty of words alone, even the words of the Irishman, was not enough. Words needed song for full expression.

  After about fifteen minutes, a student emerged. She walked slowly.

  I waited a moment, and then hurried to the door, keeping the flowers behind my back as I knocked.

  "Yes?"

  "Ah… this is Jude Parsfal. I… have something for you.”

  After what seemed an endless moment, the office door opened. She stood there, her silver-gray eyes somber, yet dancing. Then she twitched her head slightly, and flipped back a few errant strands of that mahogany hair deftly.

  "These are for you.” I handed her the bouquet of yellow roses. "They're real hothouse roses. Not formulated.”

  The professor's mouth opened. "Why… ?" She looked at me quizzically, perhaps even appalled.

  "Ah… I'm not… well…” I handed her the card that went with the roses. I watched as she read the words I'd written for her.

  No wind whispers, disturbs your fingers,

  Perfect hands where perfection lingers.

  Your unsung song spins in my mind

  Seeking words I still cannot find.

  I watched after others did you wrong,

  And never heard your favored song,

  Yet scarce can find the strength to bring

  Strong warm words for you to sing.

  So these flowers do I proffer

  As but gesture, beginning offer.

  She looked up, a faint smile on her face, a smile that could have meant anything.

  "I know,” I said hurriedly. "It's not good poetry, and you don't even know me, except through a few interviews. It's not like Yeats and his gong-tormented sea. But… I wanted it to be about now and you, and not the misty past. And… I didn't want to just let you sing for people who didn't care, except that you were a decoration.” I paused. "We might have a chance to be more than hired help. Newsie researchers are hired help, too.” I stopped. I was talking far too much.

  She smiled. It looked like more than a professional expression. "I'm still hired help. I have to do a rezad in less than an hour. Would you like to come with me? We could go somewhere afterward for something to eat, if you wouldn't mind.”

  Mind? "I'd be delighted. Thank you.”

  "Thank you. Let me get my shawl.” Somehow that was fitting—a singer with a shawl. I couldn't speak poet's words. All I could do was smile back. It was enough.

 

&n
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