"Doorsways in the Sand 07" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

Doorways in the Sand
Chapter 7

Dennis Wexroth didn't say a damn thing. If he had, I might have killed him just then. He stood there with his palms pressed against the wall behind him, a deepening redness about his right eyesocket where it would eventually puff up and go purple. The receiver of his uprooted telephone hung over the edge of the wastebasket where I had buried it.
In my hand was a fancy piece of parchment which told me that ydissaC mahgninnuC kcirederF had received a .ygoloporhtnA ni etarotcoD fo yhposolipP
Fighting for some measure of control, I slipped it back into its envelope and dammed my river of profanity.
"How?" I said. "How could you possibly do such a thing? It... It's illegal!"
"It is perfectly legal," he said softly. "Believe me, it was done under advice."
"We'll just see how that advice holds up in court," I said. "I was never admitted to grad school, I haven't submitted a dissertation, I never took any orals or language exams and no notice was filed. Now you tell me how you justify giving me a Ph. D. I'd really like to know."
"First, you are enrolled here," he said. "That makes you eligible for a degree."
"Eligible, yes. Entitled, no. There is a distinction"
"True, but the elements of entitlement are determined by the administration"
"What did you do? Have a special meeting?"
"As a matter of fact, there was one. And it was determined that enrollment as a full-time student was to be deemed indicative of the intention to take a degree. Consequently, if the other factors were met-"
"I've never completed a major," I said.
"The formal course requirements are less rigid when it comes to the matter of an advanced degree."
"But I never took a B.A.!"
He smiled, thought better of it, erased it.
"If you will read the regulations very carefully," he said, "you will see that nowhere do they state that a baccalaureate is a prerequisite for an advanced degree. A 'suitable equivalent' is sufficient to produce a 'qualified candidate.' They are phrases of art, Fred, and the administration does the construing."
"Even granting that, the dissertation requirement is written into the regs. I've read that part."
"Yes. But then there is Sacred Ground: A Study of Ritual Areas, the book you submitted to the university press. It is sufficiently appropriate to warrant treatment as an anthropology dissertation."
"I've never submitted it to the department for anything."
"No, but the editor asked Dr. Lawrence's opinion of it. His opinion, among other things, was that it would do for a dissertation."
"I'll nail you on that point when I get you in court," I said. "But go on. I'm fascinated. Tell me how I did on my orals."
"Well," he said, looking away, "the professors who would have sat on your board agreed unanimously to waive the orals in your case. You have been around so long and they know you so well that they considered it an unnecessary formality. Besides, two of them were classmates of yours as undergraduates and they felt kind of funny about it."
"I'll bet they did. Let me finish the story myself. The heads of the language departments involved decided I had taken sufficient courses in their respective bailiwicks to warrant their certifying as to my reading abilities. Right?"
"That, basically, is it."
"It was easier to give me a doctorate than a B.A.?"
"Yes, it was."
I wanted to hit him again, but that wasn't the answer. I drove my fist into my palm, several times.
"Why?" I said. "Now I know how you did it, but the really important thing is why." I began to pace. "I've paid this university its tuitions, its fees, for some thirteen years now-a decent little sum when you stop to add things up- and I've never bounced a check here, or anything like that. I have always gotten along well with the faculty, the administration, the other students. Except for my climbing, I've never been in any really serious trouble, done anything to give the place a black eye . . . Pardon me. What I am trying to say is that I've been a pretty decent customer for what you are selling. Then what happens? I turn my back, I go out of town for a little while and you slip me a Ph. D. Do I deserve that kind of treatment after giving you my patronage all this time? I think it was a rotten thing to do and I want an explanation. Now, I want one. Now! Do you really hate me that much?"
"Feelings had nothing to do with it," he said, raising his hand slowly to prod the upper reaches of his cheek. "I told you I wanted to get you out of here because I did not approve of your attitude, your style. That still holds. But this was none of my doing. In fact, I opposed it There were-well-pressures brought to bear on us."
"What kind of pressures?" I asked.
He turned away. "I do not believe I am the one to be talking about it, really."
"You are," I said. "Really. Tell me about it."
"Well, the university gets a lot of money from the government, you know. Grants, research contracts . . ."
"I know. What of it?"
"Ordinarily, they keep their nose out of our business."
"Which is as it should be."
"Occasionally, though, they have something to say. When they do, we generally listen."
"Are you trying to tell me I've been awarded my degree by government request?"
"In a word, yes."
"I don't believe you. They just don't do things like that."
He shrugged. Then he turned and looked at me again.
"There was a time when I would have said the same thing," he told me, "but I know better now."
"Why did they want it done?"
"I still have no idea."
"I find that difficult to believe."
"I was told that the reason for the request was of a confidential nature. I was also told that it was a matter of some urgency, and he waved the word 'security' at us. That was all that I was told."
I stopped pacing. I jammed my hands into my pockets. I took them out again. I found a cigarette and lit it. It tasted funny. But then, they all did these days. Everything did.