Clifford D. Simak - Doorways in the Sand

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Doorsways in the Sand

Chapter 1

Lying, left hand for a pillow, on the shingled slant of the roof, there in the shade of the

gable, staring at the cloud-curdles in afternoon's blue pool, I seemed to see, between

blinks, above the campus and myself, an instant piece of sky-writing.

DO YOU SMELL ME DED? I read.

A moment's appraisal and it was gone. I shrugged. I also sniffed at the small breeze

that had decided but moments before to pass that way.

"Sorry," I mumbled to the supernatural journalist. "No special stinks."

I yawned then and stretched. I had been dozing, had regarded the tag end of a dream, I

supposed. Probably just as well that I could not recall it. I glanced at my watch. It

indicated that I was late for my appointment. But then, it could be wrong. In fact, it

usually was.

I edged forward into a 45° hunker, my heels still resting against the ice-catching

eyelets, my right hand now upon the gable. Five stories below me the Quad was a study

in green and concrete, shade and sunlight, people in slow motion, a fountain like a

phallus that had taken a charge of buckshot at its farther end. Beyond the phountain lay

Jefferson Hall, and up on Jeff's third floor was the office of my latest adviser, Dennis

Wexroth. I patted my hip pocket. The edge of my schedule card still jutted there. Good.

To go in, go down, go across and go up seemed an awful waste of time when I was

already up. Although it was somewhat out of keeping with the grand old tradition as well

as my personal practice to do much climbing before sundown, the way across-with all the

buildings connected or extremely adjacent-was easy and reasonably inconspicuous.

I worked my way about the gable and over to the far eave. About three feet outward

and six down, an easy jump, and I was on the library's flat roof and trotting. Across the

roofs and about the chimneys on a row of converted townhouses then. Over the chapel.

Quasimodolike-a bit tricky there-along a ledge, down a drainpipe, another ledge, through

the big oak tree and over to the final ledge. Excellent! I had saved six or seven minutes, I

was certain.

And I felt most considerate as I peered in the window, for the clock on the wall showed

me that I was three minutes early.

Wide-eyed, openmouthed, Dennis Wexroth's head rose from its reading angle, turned

slowly, darkened then, continued upward, dragged the rest of him to his feet, about his

desk, toward me.

I was looking back over my shoulder to see what he was glaring at when he heaved the

window open and said, "Mister Cassidy, just what the hell are you doing?"

I turned back. He was gripping the sill as if it were very important to him and I had

sought its removal.

"I was waiting to see you," I said. "I'm three minutes early for my appointment."

"Well, you can just go back down and come in the same way any . . ." he began. Then:

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"No! Wait!" he said. "That might make me an accomplice to something. Get in here!"

He stepped aside and I entered the room. I wiped my hand on my trousers, but he

declined to take it.

He turned away, walked back to his desk, sat dawn.

"There is a rule against climbing around on the buildings," he said.

"Yes," I said, "but it's just a matter of form. They had to pass something as a

disclaimer, that's all. Nobody pays any atten-"

"You," he said, shaking his head. "You are the reason for the rule. I may be new here,

but I've done my homework so far as you are concerned."

"It's not really very important," I said. "So long as I'm discreet about it, nobody much

cares-"

"Acrophilia!" he snorted, slapping the folder that lay on his desk. "You once bought a

screwball medical opinion that saved you from being suspended, that even got you some

sympathy, made you a minor celebrity. I just read it. It's a piece of garbage. I don't buy it.

I don't even think it's funny."

I shrugged. "I like to climb things," I said. "I like to be up in high places. I never said it

was funny, and Doctor Marko is not a screwball."

He emitted a labial consonant and began flipping through pages in the folder. I was

beginning to feel a dislike for the man. Close-cut, sandy hair, a neat, matching beard and

mustache that almost hid his mean little mouth. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, I

guessed. Here he was getting nasty and authoritarian and not even offering me a seat, and

I was probably several years his senior and had taken pains to get there on time. I had met

him only once before, briefly, at a party. He had been stoned at the time and considerably

more congenial. Hadn't seen my file yet, of course. Still, that should make no difference.

He should deal with me de novo, not on the basis of a lot of hearsay. But advisers come

and go-general, departmental, special. I've dealt with the best and I've dealt with the

worst. Offhand, I can't say who was my favorite. Maybe Merimee. Maybe Crawford.

Merimee helped me head off a suspension action. A very decent fellow. Crawford almost

tricked me into graduating, which would probably have gotten him the Adviser of the

Year award. A good guy, nevertheless. Just a little too creative. Where are they now?

I drew up a chair and made myself comfortable, lighting a cigarette and using the

wastebasket for an ashtray. He did not seem to notice but went on paging through the

materials.

Several minutes passed in this fashion, then: "All right," he said, "I'm ready for you."

He looked up at me then and he smiled.

"This semester. Mister Cassidy, we are going to graduate you," he said.

I smiled back at him.

"That, Mister Wexroth, will be a cold day in hell," I said.

"I believe that I have been a little more thorough than my predecessors," he replied. "I

take it you are up on all the university's regulations?"

"I go over them fairly regularly."

"I also assume you are aware of all the courses being offered this coming semester?"

"That's a safe assumption."

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He withdrew a pipe and pouch from within his jacket, and he began loading the thing

slowly, with great attention to each fleck and strand, seeming to relish the moment. I had

had him pegged as a pipe smoker all along.

He bit it, lit it, puffed it, withdrew it and stared at me through the smoke.

"Then we've got you on a mandatory graduation," he said, "under the departmental

major rule."

"But you haven't even seen my preregistration card."

"It doesn't matter. I've had every choice you could make, every possible combination

of courses you might select to retain your full-time status worked out by one of the

computer people. I had all of these matched up with your rather extensive record, and in

each instance I've come up with a way of getting rid of you. No matter what you select,

you are going to complete a departmental major in something."

"Sounds as if you've been pretty thorough."

"I have."

"Mind if I ask why you are so eager to get rid of me?"

"Not at all," he replied. "The fact of the matter is, you are a drone."

"A drone?"

"A drone. You don't do anything but hang around."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You are a liability, a drain on the intellectual and emotional resources of the academic

community."

"Crap," I observed. "I've published some pretty good papers."

"Precisely. You should be off teaching or doing research-with a couple degrees after

your name-not filling a space some poor undergrad could be occupying."

I dismissed a mental picture of the poor would-be undergrad-lean, hollow-eyed, nose

and fingertips pressed against the glass, his breath fogging it, slavering after the

education I was denying him-and I said, "Crap again. Why do you really want to get rid

of me?"

He stared at his pipe, almost thoughtfully, for a moment, then said, "When you get

right down to basics, I just plain don't like you."

"But why? You hardly know me."

"I know about you-which is more than sufficient." He tapped my file. "It's all in there,"

he said. "You represent an attitude for which I have no respect."

"Would you mind being more specific?"

"All right," he said, turning the pages to one of many markers that protruded from the

file. "According to the record, you have been an undergraduate here for-let me see-

approximately thirteen years."

"That sounds about right."

"Full-time," he added.

"Yes, I've always been full-time."

"You entered the university at an early age. You were a precocious little fellow. Your

grades have always been quite good."

"Thank you."

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"That was not a compliment. It was an observation. Lots of grad material too, but

always for undergrad credit. Quantity-wise, in fact, there is the substance of a couple of

doctorates in here. Several composites suggest themselves-"

"Composites do not come under the departmental major rule."

"Yes. I am well aware of that. We are both quite well aware of that. It has become

obvious over the years that your intention is to retain your full-time status but never to

graduate."

"I never said that."

"An acknowledgment would be redundant. Mister Cassidy. The record speaks for

itself. Once you had all the general requirements out of the way, it was still relatively

simple for you to avoid graduation by switching your major periodically and obtaining a

new set of special requirements. After a time, however, these began to overlap. It soon

became necessary for you to switch every semester. The rule concerning mandatory

graduation on completion of a departmental major was, as I understand it, passed solely

because of you. You have done a lot of sidestepping, but this time you are all out of sides

to step to. Time runs, the clock will strike. This is the last interview of this sort you will

ever have."

"I hope so. I just came to get my card signed."

"You also asked me a question."

"Yes, but I can see now that you're busy and I'm willing to let you off the hook."

"That's quite all right. I'm here to answer your questions. To continue, when I first

learned of your case, I was naturally curious as to the reason for your peculiar behavior.

When I was offered the opportunity of becoming your adviser, I made it my business to

find out-"

" 'Offered'? You mean you're doing this by choice?"

"Very much so. I wanted to be the one to say goodbye to you, to see you off on your

way into the real world."

"If you'd just sign my card-"

"Not yet. Mister Cassidy. You wanted to know why I dislike you. When you leave

here-via the door-you will know. To begin with, I have succeeded where my predecessors

failed. I am familiar with the provisions of your uncle's will."

I nodded. I had had a feeling he was driving that way.

"You seem to have exceeded the scope of your appointment," I said. "That is a

personal matter."

"When it touches upon your activities here, it comes within my area of interest-and

speculation. As I understand it, your late uncle left a fairly sizable fund out of which you

receive an extremely liberal allowance for so long as you are a full-time student working

on a degree. Once you receive a degree of any sort, the allowance terminates and the

balance remaining in the fund is to be distributed to representatives of the Irish

Republican Army. I believe I have described the situation fairly?"

"As fairly as an unfair situation can be described, I suppose. Poor, batty old Uncle

Albert. Poor me, actually. Yes, you have the facts straight."

"It would seem that the man's intention was to provide for your receiving an adequate

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education-no more, no less-and then leaving it to you to make your own way in the

world. A most sensible notion, as I see it."

"I had already guessed that."

"And one to which you, obviously, do not subscribe."

"True. Two very different philosophies of education are obviously involved here."

"Mister Cassidy, I believe that economics rather than philosophy controls the situation.

For thirteen years you have contrived to remain a full-time student without taking a

degree so that your stipend would continue. You have taken gross advantage of the

loophole in your uncle's will because you are a playboy and a dilettante, with no real

desire ever to work, to hold a job, to repay society for suffering your existence. You are

an opportunist. You are irresponsible. You are a drone."

I nodded. "All right. You have satisfied my curiosity as to your way of thinking. Thank

you."

His brows fell into a frown and he studied my face.

"Since you may be my adviser for a long while," I said, "I wanted to know something

of your attitude. Now I do."

He chuckled. "You are bluffing."

I shrugged. "If you'll just sign my card, I'll be on my way."

"I do not have to see that card," he said slowly, "to know that I will not be your adviser

for a long while. This is it, Cassidy, an end to your flippancy."

I withdrew the card and extended it. He ignored it and continued. "And with your

demoralizing effect here at the university, I cannot help but wonder how your uncle

would feel if he knew how his wishes were being thwarted. He-"

"I'll ask him when he comes around," I said. "But when I saw him last month he wasn't

exactly turning over."

"Beg pardon? I didn't quite . . ."

"Uncle Albert was one of the fortunate ones in the Bide-A-Wee scandal. About a year

ago. Remember?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not. I thought your uncle was dead. In fact, he

has to be. If the will . . ."

"It's a delicate philosophical point," I said. "Legally, he's dead all right. But he had

himself frozen and stored at Bide-A-Wee-one of those cryonic outfits. The proprietors

proved somewhat less than scrupulous, however, and the authorities had him moved to a

different establishment along with the other survivors."

"Survivors?"

"I suppose that's the best word. Bide-A-Wee had over five hundred customers on their

books, but they actually only had around fifty on ice. Made a tremendous profit that

way."

"I don't understand. What became of the others?"

"Their better components wound up in gray-market organ banks. That was another area

where Bide-A-Wee turned a handsome profit."

"I do seem to remember hearing about it now. But what did they do with the. . .

remains?"

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"One of the partners also owned a funeral establishment. He just disposed of things in

the course of that employment."

"Oh. Well . . . Wait a minute. What did they do if someone came around and wanted to

view a frozen friend or relative?"

"They switched nameplates. One frozen body seen through a frosted panel looks pretty

much like any other-sort of like a popsicle in cellophane. Anyway, Uncle Albert was one

of the ones they kept for show. He always was lucky."

"How did they finally get tripped up?"

"Tax evasion. They got greedy."

"I see. Then your uncle actually could show up for an accounting one day?"

"There is always that possibility. Of course, there have been very few successful

revivals."

"The possibility doesn't trouble you?"

"I deal with things as they arise. So far. Uncle Albert hasn't."

"Along with the university and your uncle's wishes, I feel obliged to point out that you

are doing violence in another place as well."

I looked all around the room. Under my chair, even.

"I give up," I said.

"Yourself."

"Myself?"

"Yourself. By accepting the easy economic security of the situation, you are yielding to

inertia. You are ruining your chances of ever really amounting to anything. You are

growing in your dronehood."

"Dronehood?"

"Dronehood. Hanging around and not doing anything."

"So you are really acting in my best interests if you succeed in kicking me out, huh?"

"Precisely."

"I hate to tell you, but history is full of people like you. We tend to judge them

harshly."

"History?"

"Not the department. The phenomenon."

He sighed and shook his head. He accepted my card, leaned back, puffed on his pipe,

began to study what I had written.

I wondered whether he really believed he was doing me a favor by trying to destroy

my way of life. Probably.

"Wait a minute," he said. "There's a mistake here."

"No mistake."

"The hours are wrong."

"No. I need twelve and there are twelve."

"I'm not disputing that, but-"

"Six hours, personal project, interdisciplinary, for art history credit, on site, Australia

in my case."

"You know it should really be anthropology. But that would complete a major. But

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that's not what I'm-"

"Then three hours of comparative lit with that course on the troubadours. I'm still safe

with that, and I can catch it on video-the same as with that one-hour currentevents thing

for social-science credit. Safe there, and that's ten hours. Then two hours' credit for

advanced basket weaving, and that's twelve. Home free."

"No, sir! You are not! That last one is a three-hour course, and that gives you a major

in it!"

"Haven't seen Circular fifty-seven yet, have you?"

"What?"

"It's been changed."

"I don't believe you."

I glanced at his IN basket.

"Read your mail."

He snatched at the basket; he rifled it. Somewhere near the middle of things he found

the paper. Clocking his expressions, I noted disbelief, rage and puzzlement within the

first five seconds. I was hoping for despair, but you can't have everything all at once.

Frustration and bewilderment were what remained when he turned to me once again

and said, "How did you do it?"

"Why must you look for the worst?"

"Because I've read your file. You got to the instructor some way, didn't you?"

"That's most ignoble of you. And I'd be a fool to admit it, wouldn't I?"

He sighed. "I suppose so."

He withdrew a pen, clicked it with unnecessary force and scrawled his name on the

"Approved by" line at the bottom of the card.

Returning the card, he observed, "This is the closest you've come, you know. It was

just under the wire this time. What are you going to do for an encore?"

"I understand that two new majors will be instituted next year. I suppose I should see

the proper departmental adviser if I am interested in changing my area."

"You'll see me," he said, "and I will confer with the person involved."

"Everyone else has a departmental adviser."

"You are a special case requiring special handling. You are to report here again next

time."

"All right," I said, filing the card in my hip pocket as I rose. "See you then."

As I headed for the door he said, "I'll find a way."

I paused on the threshold.

"You," I said pleasantly, "and the Flying Dutchman."

I closed the door gently behind me.

Doorways in the Sand

Chapter 2

Incidents and fragments, bits-and-pieces time. Like-

"You're not joking?"

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"I'm afraid not."

"I'd rather it looked like hell for the obvious reasons," she said, wide-eyed, backing

toward the door we had just come through.

"Well, whatever happened, it's done. We'll just clean up and..."

She reopened the door, that long, lovely, wild hair dancing as she shook her head

vigorously.

"You know, I'm going to think this over a little more," she said, stepping back into the

hall.

"Aw, come on, Ginny. It's nothing serious."

"Like I said, I'll think about it."

She began closing the door.

"Should I call you later, then?"

"I don't think so."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tell you what, I'll call you."

Click.

Hell. She might as well have slammed it. End of Phase One in my search for a new

roommate. Hal Sidmore, who had shared the apartment with me for some time, had

gotten married a couple of months back. I missed him, as he had been a boon companion,

good chess player and general heller about town, as well as an able explicator of

multitudes of matters. I had decided to look for something a bit different in my next

roommate, however. I thought I had spotted that indefinable quality in Ginny, late one

night while climbing the radio tower behind the Pi Phi house, as she was about her end-

of-day business in her third-floor room there. Things had gone swimmingly after that. I

had met her at ground level, we had been doing things together for over a month and I

had just about succeeded in persuading her to consider a change of residence for the

coming semester. Then this.

"Damn!" I decided, kicking at a drawer that had been pulled from the desk, dumped

and dropped to the floor. No sense in going after her right now. Clean up. Let her get

over things. See her tomorrow.

Somebody had really torn the place apart, had gone through everything. The furniture

had even been moved about and the covers pulled off the cushions. I sighed as I regarded

it. Worse than the aftermath of the wildest of parties. What a rotten time for breaking and

entering and breaking. It wasn't the best of neighborhoods, but it was hardly the worst.

This sort of thing had never happened to me before. Now, when it did, it had to happen at

precisely the wrong time, frightening away my warm and lissome companion. On top of

this, something of course had to be missing.

I kept some cash and a few semivaluables in the top drawer of the bureau in my

bedroom. I kept more cash tacked in the toe of an old boot on a rack in the corner. I

hoped that the vandal had been satisfied with the top drawer. That was the uninspired

idea behind the arrangement.

I went to see.

My bedroom was in better order than the living room, though it too had suffered some

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depredation. The bed clothing had been pulled off and the mattress was askew. Two of

the bureau drawers were open but undumped. I crossed the room, opened the top drawer

and looked inside.

Everything was still in place, even the money. I moved to the rack, checked my boot.

The roll of bills was still where I had left it.

"There's a good fellow. Now toss it here" came a familiar voice that I could not quite

place in that context.

Turning, I saw that Paul Byler, Professor of Geology, had just emerged from my

closet. His hands were empty, not that he needed a weapon to back up any threat. While

short, he was powerfully built, and I had always been impressed by the quantity of scar

tissue on those knuckles. An Australian, he had started out as a mining engineer in some

pretty raw places, only later picking up his graduate work in geology and physics and

getting into teaching.

But I had always been on excellent terms with the man, even after I had departed my

geology major. I had known him socially for several years. Hadn't seen him for the past

couple of weeks, though, as he had taken some leave. I had thought he was out of town.

So: "Paul, what's the matter?" I said. "Don't tell me you did all this messing?"

"The boot, Fred. Just pass me the boot."

"If you're short on cash, I'll be glad to lend you-"

"The boot!"

I took it to him. I stood there and watched as he plunged his hand inside, felt about,

withdrew my roll of bills. He snorted then and thrust the boot and the money back at me,

hard. I dropped both, because he had caught me in the abdomen.

Before I even completed a brief curse, he had seized me by the shoulders, spun me

about and shoved me into the armchair beside the open window where the curtains

fluttered lightly in the breeze.

"I don't want your money, Fred," he said, glaring at me. "I just want something you

have that belongs to me. Now you had better give me an honest answer. Do you know

what I'm talking about or don't you?"

"I haven't the foggiest," I said. "I don't have anything of yours. You could have just

called me and asked me that. You didn't have to come busting in here and-"

He slapped me. Not especially hard. Just enough to jolt me and leave me silent.

"Fred," he said, "shut up. Just shut up and listen. Answer when I ask you a question.

That's all. Keep the comments for another day. I'm in a hurry. Now I know you are lying

because I've already seen your ex-roommate Hal. He says you have it, because he left it

here when he moved out. What I am referring to is one of my models of the star-stone,

which he picked up after a poker party in my lab. Remember?"

"Yes," I said. "If you had just called me and ask-"

He slapped me again. "Where is it?"

I shook my head, partly to clear it and partly in negation.

"I . . . I don't know," I said.

He raised his hand.

"Wait! I'll explain! He had that thing you gave him out on the desk, in the front room,

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was using it for a paperweight. I'm sure he took it with him-along with all his other stuff-

when he moved out. I haven't seen it for a couple of months. I'm sure of that."

"Well, one of you is lying," he said, "and you're the one I've got."

He swung again, but this time I was ready for him. I ducked and kicked him in the

groin.

It was spectacular. Almost worth staying to watch, as I had never kicked anyone in the

groin before. The cold, rational thing to do next would be to go for the back of his neck

while he was doubled over that way, preferably spiking him with my elbow. However, I

was not in a cold, rational mood just then. To be honest about it, I was afraid of the man,

scared to get too close to him. Having had small experience with groin-kicked persons, I

had no idea how long it might be before he straightened up and came at me.

Which is why I took to my own element rather than stay there and face him.

I was over the arm of the chair, had the window the rest of the way up and was out it in

an instant. There was a narrow ledge along which I moved until I had hold of the

drainpipe, off about eight feet to the right.

I could continue on around it, go up or down. But I decided to remain where I was. I

felt secure.

Not too much later his head emerged from the window, turned my way. He studied the

ledge and cursed me. I lit a cigarette and smiled.

"What are you waiting for?" I said when he paused for breath. "Come on out. You may

be a lot tougher than I am, Paul, but if you come out here only one of us is going back in

again. That's concrete down there. Come on. Talk is cheap. Show me."

He took a deep breath and his grip tightened on the sill. For a moment I actually

thought he was going to try it. He looked downward, though, and he looked back at me.

"All right, Fred," he said, getting control of his lecture voice. "I'm not that big a fool.

You win. But listen, please. What I've said is true. I've got to have that thing back. I

would not have acted as I did if it were not very important. Please tell me, if you will,

whether you were telling me the truth."

I was still smarting from those slaps. I did not feel like being a nice guy. On the other

hand, it must have meant a lot to him to make him behave as he had, and I had nothing to

gain by not telling him. So: "It was the truth," I said.

"And you have no idea where it might be?"

"None."

"Could someone have picked it up?"

"Easily."

"Who?"

"Anybody. You know those parties we had. Thirty, forty people in there."

He nodded and gnashed his teeth.

"All right," he said then. "I believe you. Try and think, though. Can you recall

anything-anything at all-that might give me a lead?"

I shook my head. "Sorry."

He sighed. He sagged. He looked away.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'm going now. I suppose you plan on calling the police?"

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20krui...%20D.%20Simak%20-%20Doorways%20in%20the%20Sand.txt (10 of 121)20-2-2006 23:19:30

Clifford D. Simak - Doorways in the Sand

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