Doorways in the Sand. Chapter 1, 2
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 fountain 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. Quasimodo-like-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: “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.”