First Meetings (7 page)

Ms. Brown laughed. “Anyone want to try an answer to that?”

No one spoke.

“And why have we suddenly become silent?” she asked.

She waited.

Finally someone murmured, “The population laws.”

“Ah,” she said. “Politics. We have a worldwide decision to decrease the human population by limiting the number of births to two per couple. And you don’t want to talk about it.”

The silence said that they didn’t even want to talk about the fact that they didn’t want to talk about it.

“The human race is fighting for its survival against an alien invasion,” she said, “and in the process, we have decided to
limit
our reproduction.”

“Somebody named Brown,” said John Paul, “ought to know how dangerous it can be to go on record as opposing the population laws.”

She looked at him icily. “This is a science class, not a political debate,” she said. “There are community traits that promote survival of the individual, and individual traits that promote the survival of the community. In this class, we are not afraid to go where the evidence takes us.”

“What if it takes us out of any chance of getting a job?” asked a student.

“I’m here to teach the students who want to learn what I know,” she said. “If you’re one of that happy number, then aren’t we both lucky. If you’re not, I don’t much care. But I’m not going to
not
teach you something because knowing it might somehow make you less employable.”

“So is it true,” asked a girl in the front row, “that he really
is
your father?”

“Who?” asked Ms. Brown.

“You know,” the girl said. “Hinckley Brown.”

Hinckley Brown. The military strategist whose book was still the bible of the International Fleet—but who resigned from the I.F. and went into seclusion because he refused to go along with the population laws.

“And this would be relevant to you because…?” asked Ms. Brown.

The answer was belligerent. “Because we have a right to know if you’re teaching us science or your religion.”

That’s right, thought John Paul. Hinckley Brown was a Mormon, and they were noncompliant.

Noncompliant like John Paul’s own parents, who were Polish Catholics.

Noncompliant like John Paul intended to be, as soon as he found somebody he wanted to marry. Somebody who also wanted to stick it to the Hegemony and their two-children-per-family law.

“What if,” said Ms. Brown, “the findings of science happen to coincide, on a particular point, with the beliefs of a religion? Do we reject the science in order to reject the religion?”

“What if the science gets influenced by the religion?” demanded the student.

“Fortunately,” said Ms. Brown, “the question is not only stupid and offensive, it’s also moot. Because whatever blood relationship I might or might not have with the famous Admiral Brown, the only thing that matters is
my
science and, if you happen to be suspicious,
my
religion.”

“So what
is
your religion?” the student said.

“My religion,” said Ms. Brown, “is to try to falsify all hypotheses. Including
your
hypothesis that teachers should be judged according to their parentage or their membership in a group. If you find me teaching something that cannot be adduced from the evidence, then you can make your complaint. And since it seems particularly important to
you
to avoid any possibility of an idea contaminated by Hinckley Brown’s beliefs, I will drop you from the class…right…now.”

By the end of the sentence she was jabbing instructions at her desk, which was sitting atop the podium. She looked
up. “There. You can leave now and go to the department offices to arrange to be admitted to a different section of this class.”

The student was flabbergasted. “I don’t want to drop this class.”

“I don’t recall asking you what you wanted,” said Ms. Brown. “You’re a bigot and a troublemaker, and I don’t have to keep you in my class. That goes for the rest of you. We will follow the evidence, we will challenge ideas, but we will not challenge the personal life of the teacher. Anyone else want to drop?”

In that moment, John Paul Wiggin fell in love.

Theresa let the exhilaration of Human Community carry her for several hours. The class hadn’t started well—the Wiggin boy looked to be a troublemaker. But it turned out he was as smart as he was arrogant, and it sparked the brightest kids in the class, and all in all it was exactly the kind of thing Theresa had always loved about teaching: a group of people thinking the same thoughts, conceiving the same universe, becoming, for just a few moments, one.

The Wiggin “boy.” She had to laugh at her own attitude. She was probably younger than he was. But she felt so old. She’d been in grad school for several years now, and it felt as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. It wasn’t enough to have her own career to worry about, there was the constant pressure of her father’s crusade. Everything she did was interpreted by everyone as if her father were speaking through her, as if he somehow controlled her mind and heart.

Why shouldn’t they think so?
He
did.

But she refused to think about him. She was a scientist, even if she was a bit on the theoretical side. She was not a child anymore. More to the point, she was not a soldier in his army, a fact that he had never recognized and never would—especially now that his “army” was so small and weak.

Then she got beeped for a meeting with the dean.

Grad students didn’t get called in for meetings with the dean. And the fact that the secretary claimed to have no idea what the meeting was about or who else would be there filled her with foreboding.

The late summer weather was quite warm, even this far north, but since Theresa lived an indoor life she rarely noticed it. Certainly she hadn’t dressed for the afternoon temperature. She was dripping with sweat by the time she got to the graduate school offices, and instead of having a few minutes in the air-conditioning to cool down, the secretary rushed her right into the dean’s office.

Worse and worse.

There was the dean and her entire dissertation committee. And Dr. Howell, who had apparently returned from retirement just for this occasion. Whatever this occasion was.

They barely took time for the basic courtesies before they broke the news to her. “The foundation has decided to withdraw funding unless we remove you from the project.”

“On what grounds?” she asked.

“Your age, mostly,” said the dean. “You
are
extraordinarily young to be running a research project of this scope.”

“But it’s my project. It only exists because I thought of it.”

“I know it seems unfair,” said the dean. “But we won’t let this interfere with your progress toward your doctorate.”

“Won’t let it interfere?” She laughed in consternation. “It took a year to get this grant, even though it’s one with obvious value for the current world situation. Even if I had a new research project on the back burner, you can’t pretend that this won’t postpone my degree by years.”

“We recognize the problem this is causing you, but we’re prepared to grant you your degree with a project of…less…scope.”

“Help me understand this,” she said. “You trust me so much that you’d grant me a degree without caring about my dissertation. Yet you don’t trust me enough to let me even take part in a vital project that
I
designed. Who’s going to run it?”

She looked at her committee chairman. He blushed.

“This isn’t even your area,” she said to him. “It’s nobody’s area but mine.”

“As you said,” her chairman answered, “you designed the project. We’ll follow your plan exactly. Whatever data emerges, it will have the same value regardless of who heads it up.”

She stood up. “Of course I’m leaving,” she said. “You can’t do this to me.”

“Theresa,” said Dr. Howell.

“Oh,” said Theresa, “is it your job to get me to go along with this?”

“Theresa,” repeated the old woman. “You know perfectly well what this is about.”

“No, I don’t,” said Theresa.

“Nobody here at this table will admit it, but…it’s only ‘mostly’ about how young you are.”

“So what’s the ‘partly’ that’s left over?” asked Theresa.

“I think,” said Dr. Howell, “that if your father came out of retirement, suddenly there’d be no objection to one so young running an important research project.”

Theresa looked around at the others. “You can’t be serious.”

“Nobody has come out and said it,” said the dean, “but they
have
pointed out that the impetus for this came from the foundation’s main customer.”

“The Hegemony,” said her chairman.

“So I’m a hostage to my father’s politics.”

“Or his religion,” said the dean. “Or whatever it is that’s driving him.”

“And you’ll let your academic program be manipulated for…for…”

“The university depends on grants,” said the dean. “Imagine what will happen to us if, one by one, our grant applications start being refused. The Hegemony has enormous influence. Everywhere.”

“In other words,” said Dr. Howell, “there really isn’t anywhere else you can go. We’re one of the
most
independent universities, and we aren’t free. That’s why they’re determined to grant you a doctorate despite the fact that you can’t do your research. Because you deserve one, and they know this is grossly unfair.”

“So what’s to stop them from keeping me from teaching, too? Who would even
have
me? A Ph.D. who can’t show her research—what a joke I’d be.”

“We’d hire you,” said the dean.

“Why?” demanded Theresa. “A charity case? What could I
possibly accomplish at a university where I can’t do research?”

Dr. Howell sighed. “Because of course you’d continue to run the project. Who else could manage it?”

“Without my name on it,” said Theresa.

“It’s important research,” said Dr. Howell. “The survival of the human race is at stake. There’s a war on, you know.”

“Then tell that to the foundation and get them to tell the Hegemony to—”

“Theresa,” said Dr. Howell. “Your name won’t be on the project. It won’t be listed as your dissertation. But everybody in the field will know
exactly
who did it. You’ll have a tenure track position here, a doctorate, and a dissertation whose authorship is an open secret. All we’re really asking you to do is swallow hard and get along with the ridiculous requirements that have been forced on us—and no, we will
not
listen to your decision now. In fact, we will ignore anything you say or do for the next three days. Talk to your father. Talk to any of us, all you want. But no answer until you’ve had a chance to get over the shock.”

“Don’t treat me like a child.”

“No, my dear,” said Dr. Howell. “Our plan is to treat you like a human being that we value too much to…what is your favorite term?…‘throw away.’ ”

The dean stood up. “And with that, we will adjourn this terrible meeting, in the hope that you will stay with us under these cruel circumstances.” And he walked out of the room.

The members of her committee shook her hand—she accepted their handshakes numbly—and Dr. Howell hugged her and whispered, “Your father’s war will have many casu
alties before it’s through. You may bleed for him, but for God’s sake, please don’t
die
for him. Professionally speaking.”

The meeting—and, quite possibly, her career—was over.

John Paul spotted her crossing the quad and made it a point to be leaning against the stair rail at the entrance to the Human Sciences building.

“Isn’t it a little hot for a sweater?” he asked.

She paused, looking at him just long enough that he figured she must be trying to remember who he was.

“Wiggin,” she said.

“John Paul,” he added, holding out his hand.

She looked at it, then at his face. “Isn’t it a little hot for a sweater,” she said vaguely.

“Funny, I was just thinking that,” said John Paul. Clearly this girl was distracted by something.

“Is this some technique that works for you? Telling a girl she is dressed inappropriately? Or is it merely the mention of clothing that ought to come off?”

“Wow,” said John Paul. “You saw right to my soul. And yes, it works on most women. I have to beat them back with a stick.”

Again a momentary pause. Only this time he didn’t wait for her to come up with some put-down. If he was going to recover any chance, it would take some fast misdirection.

“I’m sorry that I spoke the thought that came into my head,” said John Paul. “I said ‘Isn’t it a little hot for a sweater?’ because it’s a little hot for a sweater. And because I wanted to see if you had a minute I could talk to you.”

“I don’t,” said Ms. Brown. She walked past him toward the door of the building.

He followed. “Actually, we’re in the middle of your office hours right now, aren’t we?”

“So go to my office,” she said.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

She stopped. “It’s not my office hours,” she said.

“I knew I should have checked,” he said.

She pushed open the door and entered the building.

He followed. “Look at it this way—there won’t be a line outside your door.”

“I teach a low-prestige, bad-time-of-day section of Human Community,” said Ms. Brown. “There’s never a line outside my door.”

“Long enough I ended up clear out there,” said John Paul.

They were at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor. She faced him again. “Mr. Wiggin, you are better than average when it comes to cleverness, and perhaps another day I might have enjoyed our badinage.”

He grinned. A woman who would say “badinage” to a man was rare—a tiny subset of the women who actually knew the word.

“Yes, yes,” she said, as if trying to answer his smile. “Today isn’t a good day. I won’t see you in my office. I have things on my mind.”

“I have nothing on mine,” said John Paul, “and I’m a good listener, amazingly discreet.”

She walked on up the stairs ahead of him. “I find that hard to believe.”