The Candidate

20

The Candidate

    The regulations at Sir George Grey University had always been intended to give the deans considerable autonomy. And luckily for them, the current Acting CEO did not have the power to change them. Thomas’s interviewing panel, therefore, could consist of precisely what he wanted. Merely himself, he if so desired. However, various persons with considerable experience in various aspects of tertiary administration had pointed out to him that if you did that you laid yourself open to a discrimination case from the buggers. Though, as Dorothy for one had also pointed out, anybody who imagined that bringing a case against the person who’d be your boss if you won it was the way to achieve job satisfaction must need their head read. Not that some of them didn’t. Especially the American ones, she’d added with blatant prejudice.

    The interviewing panel had differed somewhat this time round according to the positions concerned—there were four jobs going, including a very nice new research fellowship up for grabs, an endowment by some rich pal of the late Sir Jake Carrano in quest of tax relief. The would-be fellows had had the lot thrown at them: those in active employment being Thomas himself and four of his professors: a geophysicist, a geomorphologist, a volcanologist, and his prized geothermal engineer; and also from his faculty, a senior lecturer whose specialty was hydrography, two senior lecturers at severe risk of being poached by Jack Perkins in order to expand the engineering side of his vast empire, one being both a geologist and a qualified marine engineer and the other an offshore geotechnical engineer, and an up-and-coming lecturer, a volcanologist who was a specialist in tephrochronology. In addition there had been a full professor of geology from an institution further south, a representative from the Sir George Grey University Board of Management—in this case an unimpressionable corporate lawyer—and Sir G.G.’s Senior Administrator, so-called, from what the more old-fashioned members of the academic staff still called the Registry. This hadn’t seemed quite enough, so Alan Kincaid, the recently retired CEO, an extremely able administrator and the coolest head Thomas had ever known, had been invited to assist. They had had ten well-qualified applicants short-listed (it was a very well-endowed post indeed). Only one had been capable of looking Alan Kincaid firmly in the eye when he produced one of his standard applicant-traps and replying: “Administrative experience? I think my record speaks for itself: I have had some limited experience in administration, but I don’t think your question is relevant to the present position, sir, and if it isn’t going to be pure research, then I’ll withdraw my application.” Thomas and Kincaid between them had then made sure she got the fellowship. The rest of the panel, with the exception of the tephrochronology expert, who was quite a young man, hadn’t been keen—not on the score of her record but, of course, because she was a woman. A fact which none of them had had the guts to verbalise.

    Junior lecturers’ positions did not rate the full panoply, and in fact Thomas’s four professors had stated in no uncertain terms that as the position of junior lecturer in geology wasn’t going to be in their departments (Thomas holding the position of Professor of Geology himself) they had better things to do with their time. The senior lecturer who, like Thomas, was a marine geologist and qualified in both geology and marine engineering—the latter entailing starting at the bottom all over again with a B.E.—had, however, said mildly: “I’d quite like to sit in.” Thomas was aware that his mildness hid a Helluva lot, so he’d just nodded and replied: “If you like, McRae.” The hydrographer had also volunteered. Thomas knew that at the moment he was heavily involved in a new research project—to which Dorothy referred relentlessly as “Polishing that bathysphere of yours”—and he’d been rather surprised, but conceded he could if he wanted to. After that he’d looked through the résumés again, frowning, but there had been no indication that the chap could ever have known any of the four short-listed applicants. Alan Kincaid had agreed amiably to sit in, not asking why on earth Thomas wanted his presence for such a minor position.

    They’d seen two applicants the previous day. Both of them had struck them as fairly mediocre, including the youngish Englishman who was one of Thomas’s former students. This morning they had the first at nine o’clock. With junior lecturers’ positions an hour was usually allowed for the interview itself, and then some time to chat about the applicant before they took the next. The nine o’clock applicant was an eager, earnest young American whose Ph.D. thesis had been on a very specific sedimentary formation in America. He had no lecturing experience but had been working for some months as a research assistant. This wasn’t unusual in academic circles, true. However, he had conscientiously enrolled for night-school classes in order to obtain a teaching qualification, and this was unusual. Most young graduates assumed they could walk straight into a classroom and start lecturing—and that was certainly the way it had traditionally been done. The interview had taken longer than usual, Alan Kincaid in particular asking him quite a lot about this course and what he felt he’d got from it.

    “Well, Alan?” said Thomas with a twinkle in his eye as, the candidate having been thanked and farewelled, the panel was able to relax over coffee and biscuits.

    “Have one of these: Catherine made them,” replied the former CEO calmly, passing the biscuits.

    “Really? Good!” Thomas seized one eagerly; Kincaid’s wife was a wonderful cook, and her biscuits always contained real ingredients such as butter and eggs.

    “They’re terrific,” said the hydrographer dazedly—he was quite young to hold the position of senior lecturer.

    “Thanks, Dr Barrington, I’ll pass that on,” replied Kincaid, smiling. “Well, Thomas, my feeling is that although Lewitt is undoubtedly a conscientious fellow, there is a very great gap between the theory of classroom instruction and its practice. Added to which, while the description he gave of adult learners was the textbook one, Sir George Grey’s geology undergraduates do not fall, by and large, into that category.”

    “I thought you must have mentioned adult learners deliberately,” murmured the senior lecturer who was both a geologist and a marine engineer.

    “Certainly,” the former CEO replied nicely.

    The hydrographer sighed. “Wet-behind-the-ears kids straight out of school,” he noted heavily. “I grant you their high marks in Schol., Thomas,” he added, though Thomas hadn’t spoken and fact was happily eating his second of Catherine Kincaid’s wonderful buttery biscuits, “but Jesus! They’ve been so spoon-fed at school with chunks of stuff that’s been pre-selected and photocopied for them, or quite possibly scanned and emailed to them, these days, that they’re incapable of using a catalogue or an index. They all think that bloody Wikipedia’s a reliable source, they’ve got no solid background in anything—though most of them could produce a considerable thesis on video games, if it wasn’t for the illiteracy problem—and at the same time they resent it like Hell if they think you’re talking down to them!”

    “Those damned Auckland Grammar boys do, certainly,” agreed his fellow mildly. “I’ve always thought it a pity that institutions of higher learning by and large tend to dump the first-year classes on the youngest lecturers. They need someone who’s capable of controlling them and at the same time knows the level at which to pitch his subject.”

    “I agree with you, as a matter of fact, but I can’t be in three places at once,” said Thomas, extra-mild.

    “No. Well, I could take some of it off your shoulders if you’d spend some of the Faculty budget on a qualified ship’s engineer.”

    “Tried that. Madam Medes and Persians flung it back in my face. Apparently that's an Admin position, James.”

    James McRae goggled at him.

    Thomas shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Support staff.”

    “What?”

    “I’d suggest rewriting that particular regulation, Thomas,” said the former CEO calmly. “Put it to the next deans’ meeting, perhaps.”

    Thomas took a deep breath. “I’ll wait until your successor’s on deck, thanks, Alan.”

    “Ah… ye-es. My thinking is,” he said on an apologetic note, “if you can get it on the agenda now, it may have a chance of being dealt with fairly soon.”

    “It would have had in your day—well, it would have been dealt with immediately,” replied Thomas on a grim note. “Madam, however, has decreed that once an item has been on the agenda it may not be brought up again within the financial year.”

    “Perhaps the next applicant will be up to tinkering with boats’ insides,” suggested the hydrographer. “Isn’t he the one who’s got a second degree in marine propulsion systems?”

    “He may well be, but wasn’t the point of the advertisement that your faculty needs a junior position in geology?” said Kincaid very, very mildly.

    Thus recalled to the point at issue, the panel reassembled its wits, finished its coffee and biscuits, and agreed that Dr Lewitt could be tentatively put down as a probable. And once the coffee things had been cleared away—Kincaid not hesitating to get up and help—they were ready for the next candidate.

    The interview room, also used for small conferences, was fully equipped with whatever adjunct to the corporate life that you cared to name and some that you wouldn’t, so when Thomas pressed the buzzer for the next candidate and nothing happened, there was a disconcerted silence.

    “Is it only on a battery?” suggested his fellow marine geologist and marine engineer.

    “Shut up, McRae. Don’t they teach you at Caltech about the magic electricity that can run through the wires?” replied Thomas heavily. He pressed it again.

    After several moments’ delay the door opened and a laconic Australian drawl said: “Your secretary just rushed out green as grass, Baranski. My diagnosis’d be either morning sickness or a bad prawn. Just hold on a bit, can you? Her little helper seems to think she oughta hang on here and answer the phone.” There came an agitated series of squeaking sounds from the background and he turned round and said: “It’s all right, Lainie, they won’t eat you. You go and see how Beth is. –’Scuse me, gents.” With this he retreated. As he left the door open they clearly heard him saying: “Yeah, gidday. That the switchboard? Good-oh. Can you switch this line through to you? There’s been a bit of a minor hiccup here, and the office girls have had to dash out. –Eh? Yeah, as a matter of fact Beth is chucking up—yeah, poor thing. –Okay, love—what’s your name? Yvonne? Okay, Yvonne, I’ll tell her you’ll run her home. See ya!” With this he apparently hung up, because he reappeared in the doorway and said: “Do ya want me now?”

    To which Thomas replied evilly: “Was that bloody Yvonne on the main switchboard?”

    “That’s what she said,” he replied, unmoved.

    “She’s supposed to be doing reception for the bloody Registry!” he shouted.

    “I thought she was due to retire,” murmured Kincaid, the face betraying nothing.

    Thomas gave him an evil look. “The word is ‘superannuated’, Alan, and the reason she’s still with us is your bloody regulations that don’t stipulate a retirement age!”

    “It was a sop to the government’s p.c. Cerberus—or two: would it be Cerberi, or is that not a second declension noun?—to them, at all events, at set-up time,” he murmured.

    “Right, well, the result is now she’s proposing to desert the fucking switchboard in order to drive Beth home! I knew the bloody woman was pregnant!” he shouted.

    In the wake of this shout a certain silence prevailed in the interview room, not least because “Beth” was Dr Jack Perkins’s wife.

    Then Stan Gorski drawled: “In that case, mate, why the fuck didn’tcha send her straight home, first thing?”

    Alan Kincaid got up. “And so say all of us, I’m afraid, Thomas. I’ll ring Jack, I don’t think it’s dear old Yvonne’s responsibility, really.” The candidate was still standing in the doorway with a very sardonic expression on his face. He went over to him, held out his hand and said: “Dr Gorski, is it? Alan Kincaid; very glad to meet you.”

    To which the candidate, Thomas’s henchmen were not too shell-shocked in the wake of the shouting to register—they had been working for him for a while, after all—returned a conventional reply using the correct term of address, which was “Dr Kincaid”. Over the past fortnight several of the interviewees had refrained from using his name at all—they’d all been New Zealanders; the Americans without exception had called him “Professor Kincaid”; several had used “Mister”; and the “Doctors” had been noticeably few and far between. Alan Kincaid had a Ph.D. from Cambridge in addition to a Harvard M.B.A. and in his time had written several distinguished tomes on both linguistics and management.

    He and the candidate both went over to the desk, the latter saying: “The line’ll be dead,” and Kincaid replying: “Yes: I’ll use my mobile,” and outing with it. By the time he was saying: “...so I think you’d better drop everything and drive her home, Jack,” and his cell phone could be heard crackling agitatedly in response, Thomas had pulled himself together sufficiently to go out there and say, as he rang off: “Thanks, Alan. Do we gather she hadn’t told the poor bastard?”

    “Mm, think so. Probably hoping it’d go away,” was the very dry reply.

    The gentlemen in the interview room might have been heard to gulp at this, and Dr Gorski was heard to say: “Yeah, struck me as that sort. Very sweet woman. She’ll be in the nearest bog, Baranski, if you want to go and check on her.”

    The two faint-hearted gentlemen in the interview room cringed at this one, but Thomas merely replied: “Yes, I will. Thanks, Gorski.” And went out.

    “I’ll just wait here, if you don’t mind,” said the candidate before Kincaid could utter. In the interview room the gentlemen exchanged glances and looked away again.

    “Please do. Thank you so much for handling it.”

    The hydrographer, Barrington, who had the best view, saw the candidate shrug as he replied: “No worries.” “I think we’d better reread that CV,” he murmured to his colleague.

    James McRae nodded, and they both reread Stan’s not very informative CV. After a few moments, however, Dr Barrington raised his eyebrows very high. He got up and trod round the table to his colleague’s side, where he pointed silently at something on the CV, raising his eyebrows again.

    James McRae was a Scot who’d been away from his native shores for some considerable time. He still, however, reverted to his native usage when feeling particularly dry. He sniffed slightly. “Aye,” he conceded.

    In the anteroom Kincaid was now making polite conversation with the candidate about his trip over here and his impressions of the country so far. Will Barrington glanced out there cautiously, decided discretion was the better part and said nothing, merely gave McRae an incredulous look, and returned to his seat.

    Those gentlemen who had hoped they’d be spared further embarrassing scenes involving female insides were doomed to disappointment. Thomas’s PA staggered back and was told she was going home, and not to cry, at which the sobs redoubled themselves. She was wailing: “I just thought my periods had stopped because of the menopause! Jack’ll be furious, we agreed ages ago not to have any more, and he was planning a trip this year!” when a thin-faced man in perhaps his late fifties surfaced in the outer office and shouted: “Beth! Why the Hell didn’t you tell me?”

    Looking very dry, James McRae, who was quite a bit older than Will Barrington, got up and shut the conference room door.

    “Thanks,” said his colleague feebly.

    They waited in silence. At one point the hydrographer opened his mouth but thought better of it.

    Thomas was the first to reappear: he sat down heavily, passed his hand over his face, and said: “Women! The silly moo put off telling him because she thought it was only menopause, and then she lost her nerve entirely. He isn’t wild, he’s thrilled—not to say terrified: she’s about forty-five, you know, though at least it isn’t her first. Anyway, that means I’ve lost my PA, he’s forbidden her absolutely to come back to work.”

    “Good for him,” replied McRae drily.

    “Yes,” agreed Barrington uneasily. As Thomas had closed the door he added with an uneasy glance at it: “So, um—”

    “Kincaid’s on the phone to Madam Medes and Persians checking just what the fuck is going on with the switchboard—we were under the impression she’d sworn never to let Yvonne near it again as long as she lived.”

    “Could they have got fed up with her over at the Registry?” ventured Barrington.

    “I’m sure they have done, Will, but can what they want count?” replied Thomas sweetly.

    Grinning sheepishly, the hydrographer agreed: “No, not considering she used to be their immediate boss.”

    No-one was under the impression he meant Yvonne: they just nodded.

    When the door next opened it was to reveal Kincaid saying courteously: “Do come in, Dr Gorski. I think we can get on with the interview, now.”

    The candidate came in, completely poker-face, and Kincaid added smoothly: “You know Dr Baranski, of course. Let me introduce Dr McRae, our senior lecturer in geology.”

    In response the candidate noted laconically: “I know him. How are you, Jimbo? Long time no see.”

    James McRae replied: “Aye, it wasna yesterday. Good to see you again, Stan. You don’t change, I see.”

    “Bit thinner on top,” replied the candidate, grinning, and shaking his hand hard.

    “Caltech, was it, McRae?” asked Kincaid nicely. –His audience was, of course, immediately convinced he’d known it all, all along.

    “Aye, that was it. We were both mature students, though I’m not claiming I was as mature as all that.”

    “Yeah: outsiders, ya see,” Stan agreed easily. “Nothing much in common with the kids, so we kinda stuck together.”

    “Very understandable,” said Kincaid smoothly. “But I don’t think you will have met our hydrographer, Dr Barrington. –Dr Gorski, Barrington.”

    Once they had shaken the company all sat down and silence fell.

    “All right,” said Thomas heavily at last. “I’m not asking why the Hell you didn't say you knew him, James—”

    “I wasn’t sure it was him. Couldn’t remember if that was the name, actually.”

    “Yes, well. Let it pass. What I am going to ask, Gorski, is for a full and frank explanation of what the Christ you’ve been doing these last eight years or so. The lot, thanks. With dates, if possible.”

    Stan sighed, and produced a much-folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his cream daks. “I haven’t got all the dates, but I think most of them are here. They’re from me receipts—what ones I managed to get.”

    Thomas took it, looking grim. His expression gradually changed to something very like thunderstruck. “What?” He read out: “‘Grey quartz crystals, rod-like black manganese inclusions, spray of aquamarine crystal rods three inches long.’ What is this rubbish?”

    “That was a pretty one,” Stan admitted. “If you fancy something more handsome, the next one was a winner—think it’s the next one. Terminated green cap tourmaline?”

    Dazedly Thomas read out: “‘Terminated green cap tourmaline with mica. Pakistan. 8 Gram.’”

    “Aw, yeah, that was from over the border. Lovely thing. Striking.”

    Thomas looked down the list. “‘Lazurite. 159 Gram. Afgh—’” He choked. “Afghanistan? At this date?”

    “Um, yeah. Well, Afghanistan’s the place for lazurite, ya know.” Thomas was glaring at him; Stan cleared his throat. “Well, yeah: think I got the date about right—well, that’d be when I got it to the buyer, but yeah.”

    “Holy Hell, mon!” cried McRae. “Ye were getting gemstones oot of Afghanistan in the middle of a bluidy war?”

    “Uh—well, pretty much. But the place is tribal, Jimbo: if ya look at their history there’s never really been a time when they haven’t been fighting someone or other. If it wasn’t the Persians, or the Russians, or the Brits, or the Russians again, or the Yanks, they’d be killing each other, right, left and sideways.”

    Into the stunned silence Kincaid’s cool voice said: “Do you speak Pashto?”

    “A bit, yeah. Had to. Always been quite good at languages. My Arabic’s better. Stood me in quite good stead: they can’t stand Christians, but if you can unroll yer mat and quote the Holy Book right, you’re quids in. Knew some really decent blokes over there. Hard as Hell, of course: no quarter given, but none asked for, either. Got on well with them. And ride! You’d think they were glued to their saddles.”

    “Mm,” said Kincaid with a little smile. “I noticed the elastic-sided boots.”

    “They’re not unusual in Australia. Seen a photo of flamin’ Kevin Rudd wearing them.”—Those who recognised the name had to swallow.—“But these aren’t riding boots. I have got a pair of the genuine article back home—had ’em for years. Leather’s soft as butter. Heaven on the foot.”

    “How long did you do this rock-smuggling for?” croaked Dr Barrington.

    “Aw—off and on for about six years, I suppose. Bit longer, maybe. Had a break in the middle of it.”

    “Dare we ask how you got them through Customs?” asked Dr McRae.

    “No Customs up in the mountains, if ya know the passes. But—uh, well, eventually, yeah. Sometimes. Depending on who the buyer was. Very popular in New York, nice gemstones are. Easy as falling off a log, Jimbo: geological specimens. Well, they are. The world may be full of rich collectors that want to stick ’em in cabinets in their high-rises where they’ll never see daylight again, but they are still rocks.”

    McRae had got hold of the list. “Listen to this: ‘Heliodore. Ukraine. Gem beryl floater crystal; saturated, slightly greenish yellow hue, excellent transparency, natural surface etching with complex crystal faces.’ How the Hell much did you make on this, man?”

    “Aw, that one. Hadn’t been to Ukraine before. Didn’t like it much, though the people were friendly enough. Yeah, well, I done okay outa that one, though the bugger went and sold it at auction for more than double what he paid me. I cleared seven thou’, US, but he got over eighteen for it. Well, it covered me expenses with a bit left over, but I didn’t find much else worth selling, that trip.” He shrugged. “Mug’s game, really.”

    “Mm. Most of this was after the stint in China with the aid project, was it?” asked Thomas.

    “Well, not all. Fair to say most though, yeah.”

    “Right; so what were you doing between the time you gave BHP the chuck, and the aid project?”

    Stan moved his shoulders uneasily. “Had a stint in the merchant marine—that’s in the CV. Yeah—no, apart from that, I did a bit of teaching in the Outback. Well, it wasn’t official, ya see. Australia’s riddled with bureaucracy at every level—why nothing much gets done, especially not for the poor bloody Aborigines. Look, I had a mate who was teaching in a real dump in Central Australia—the desert country. He was desperate for help but the bloody Education Department—dunno if it was the NT or SA, actually. Don’t think it was WA. Anyway, whichever, they wouldn’t give him another teacher. Don’t ask me why forty Abo kids of all ages crammed into one room don’t rate two teachers when the white mums and dads all start screaming if the little dears have twenty-plus in the classroom—they go spare if there’s thirty, and then the ABC does a flamin’ programme about how bad our schools are. Bad! They don’t know they’re alive. Anyway, I was up there helping this mate out, Baranski. Mainly trying to get the little kids to grasp some basic hygiene, really. Washing the face every day, particularly the eyes—”

    “Of course! Fred Hollows!” said Kincaid, smiling at him.

    “Yeah, well, the Foundation does what it can, but by the time the adults have come down with cataracts the damage is done. They need to be taught to clean their ears, too. Lot of ear disease in the desert country. Apart from that, tried to teach ’em a bit of arithmetic and reading. The bigger kids weren’t interested, of course: it was far too late to get them to see that there might be anything in reading and writing. Taught the boys a few basics about the combustion engine and, uh, well, how to strip down a rifle, to be strictly honest. Well, I’ve got good ole Bill Parker’s contact details for you, but don’t expect him to put anything on paper.” He passed Thomas a note.

    “I won’t. How did he pay you?”

    “Fed me, gave me a roof over me head, shouted me to a few drinks when we’d made it to the nearest town with a pub. Our area was dry, nominally, but the bloody place was awash with the stuff nevertheless—only entails driving the heap to the next town but one, ya see. Then ya come back down the highway to point X, and if ya think the cops might be sitting out there on their useless bums waiting for ya, ya simply drive home cross-country. Most of the time they’re not sitting there, though, they don’t give a stuff. Whole notion of dry areas is a farce. Think more poor bloody women got beaten up there than in the places where ya can buy the stuff legally. We didn’t drink on the job, of course, not that it did anyone any good. Think they thought we were just barmy do-gooder Whitefellers like the rest.” He sighed. “Anyway, that’s what I was doing, Baranski.”

    “I see. You seem to have given the rock collecting away about two years ago, is that right?”

    “Yep.”

    “Did they catch you, or did you have a close call, or something?” asked Barrington.

    “Nah, not that. Lost me base—uh, safehouse, ya might call it. Had a mate in Pakistan, out on the coast. Claimed to be a beachcomber. Did have a shack with shells for sale. He’d paid off the right cops, and he kept his head well down, so they left him alone. He had a nice little yacht, used to get on over to the Arabian Peninsula fairly regular; I had a couple of good clients there. Anyway, he met a lovely Saudi girl, decided he wanted to marry her and settle down, but of course her parents wouldn’t hear of her marrying into his way of life. So he decided to move over there permanent, give up the smuggling, and help the dad in his shop. So that was my handy base gone.”

    His audience had listened in fascination. After a moment Dr Barrington ventured: “So didn’t the parents mind her marrying a European?”

    “Eh? No, he was an Arab,” said Stan rather limply.

    “That would have simplified matters,” noted Thomas drily. “We get it that the rock smuggling thing fell through, Gorski, but how exactly have you been earning a living these last few years? ‘Odd jobs’ won’t cut it, I’m afraid.”

    “Fishing, mainly. Bit of gardening, carpentry, that sort of thing.”

    “In Sydney, was this, as your CV would tend to suggest?”

    “Aw. No. Gorski Bay.”

    The room was silent, even Kincaid feeling stunned at this one. Thomas, however, was experiencing a certain amount of grim satisfaction which he didn’t allow to show. He waited, silently promising himself that this had better be bloody good, or the blighter would be out on his ear.

    Stan sighed. “It’s a tiny dump on the east coast of NSW, south of Wollongong. It is named after an ancestor of mine, and I still do own a fair bit of land there that I’m hanging on to like grim death so as the ruddy second-homers can’t get their mitts on it. Doesn’t bring in a red razzoo, but all I hadda do was feed myself, and the sea’s full of fish. None of the second-homers can lift a hammer, so there’s a fair few odd jobs going, and most of them are so glad to have fresh fish brought right to their door that they don’t mind paying through the nose for it. But if ya want a reference from any of them, ya better say it’s for Stan Smith, because no way was I up for the sort of palaver that woulda gone on if the dames had found out my forebears used to own the whole place.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

    “Do the locals know who you are?” asked Kincaid, apparently unmoved.

    Stan sighed. “Yeah, they do, Dr Kincaid, but I gotta say it: any of them’d give me a reference for anything under the sun.”

    He smiled a little. “You get on well with people, then.”

    It wasn’t quite a question. Stan blinked. “Pretty well with most people, yeah. The human ones.”

    “Mm-hm. Had anything to do with young people of university age?”

    “Uh… Well, I coach a few of the local kids. Swimming and boxing. Aged about ten up, really. But they don’t stay once they reach school-leaving age. No work, ya see.”

    “I see,” he murmured.

    “I s’pose Sergeant Kellett would give me a reference if you asked him. He’s the police sergeant for the district. He organises activities for the kids in the community hall, and he runs the Nippers.”

    There was a blank silence: three of his audience, of course, were British, and apparently the New Zealander hadn’t heard the term either.

    “What the Hell are Nippers?” demanded Thomas heavily.

    “Uh—ya don’t have the term here? Well, they’re the younger kids that want to learn surf life-saving. It’s big in Australia: most seaside towns have got Nippers. It’s mainly teaching them basic water safety, and they learn how to run the line out, and so forth.”

    “So you helped with that?” asked Kincaid, smiling a little.

    “That’s right, Dr Kincaid. Wayne Kellett said they might as well make use of me.”

    Thomas gave an impatient sigh. “I’m beginning to think that Madam Medes and Persians is right and we should demand chapter and verse on our applicants’ interests and hobbies! Just spell it out, Gorski: why would this police sergeant assume they should make use of you to coach swimming?”

    He shrugged. “Done a bit of competition-level swimming in me time.”

    “What level would that be?” murmured Kincaid. “Commonwealth Games? Olympics?”

    ‘Look, it was years back,” he said heavily. “And ya know bloody well I can swim, Baranski, why the Hell insist on it?”

    “Just answer the question, thanks,” replied Thomas blandly.

    “Okay, I was in the Olympic relay team. We never won but we didn’t totally disgrace ourselves, either. –That is verifiable,” he added on a snide note.

    “Thank you,” said Kincaid with a nice smile. “I think I might have seen that race. One member of the team had cramps, is that right?”

    “Uh—yeah.”

    “Mm. Otherwise you would undoubtedly have won,” he murmured.

    “So you haven’t really done any geological work for about ten years?” ventured Barrington after a moment.

    “Well, chipping off pretty rocks!” replied Stan with a grin.

    “Yes. No academic work at all?”

    “Nope.”

    The hydrographer looked uncertainly at Thomas.

    “QED, Will,” he said drily.

    “I think we can agree, though, that Dr Gorski can tell a hawk from a handsaw, geologically speaking,” said Kincaid smoothly.

    Thomas shrugged but nodded, and Barrington also nodded, but McRae said: “Aye, well, I’d like to know just how much Geology 101 you do remember, Stan.”

    “Well, you could set me a test,” he replied simply.

    “Not the done thing,” noted Thomas drily.

    “Seems sensible to me,” returned Stan stolidly.

    “Yes, why don’t you?” said Kincaid. If there was a twinkle lurking in his cool grey eyes no-one but Thomas, who over the years had got to know him rather well, suspected it. “Can you lay your hands on a Geology 101 paper, McRae?”

    “They’ve all been published… Well, if he can remember the answers I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’ll ask our secretary to bring one up.” He outed with the mobile.

    So less than ten minutes after that Stan was sitting at the desk in the anteroom, with a Geology 101 paper, a selection of pens, both McRae and Barrington having seemed eager to provide him with them, and a pile of writing paper in front of him.

    “Just knock on the door when you’ve finished,” said Thomas neutrally.

    “Righto,” Stan agreed mildly.

    With that the panel withdrew into the conference room. Stan looked at the paper, his eyebrows slightly raised. Then he shrugged and picked up a pen.

    Back in the conference room, for a while nobody spoke. Barrington picked up Stan’s list of gemstone sales and looked at with a frown. McRae leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into his braces, staring vacantly at the wall. Thomas re-read Stan’s CV, pursing his lips over it. Kincaid merely sat there, the face expressing nothing.

    Finally the hydrographer said: “This could be faked: picked up off the Net.”

    “True,” agreed Thomas.

    “Do you have any Pashto speakers on the staff?” murmured Kincaid.

    They jumped. His subordinates looked at Thomas.

    “No idea. Well, staff or students, really. Hang on, I’ll ring Leigh.” This gentleman was the very old friend with whom he’d come out to New Zealand—they had had job interviews at the same time. Leigh Gore was now Dean of the Faculty of Languages, his own specialty being ESL.

    “—Yes,” Thomas reported. “One of his ESL students: lovely young woman, Afghan refugee, together with the mother and a very much younger brother. The older males in the family all disappeared under the Taliban. She’s due for a tutorial at noon.” He looked at his watch. “Uh—good grief. Okay, she’ll be in it now. Leigh will send her over.”

    “Good,” said Kincaid placidly.

    Neither McRae nor Barrington had believed the former CEO would go that far, though he had always been renowned for his cool pragmatism—not to say his ability to cut ruthlessly to the chase and concentrate on essentials. They avoided each other’s eyes.

    “I’ll have that list back, thanks, Will,” said Thomas mildly.

    Barrington jumped. “Yes—sorry, Thomas.” He passed it over.

    Thomas read it through again, smiling. “That’s it!” he said pleasedly.

    His subordinates looked at him hopefully but Kincaid preserved his cool.

    “I’ll buy Dorothy a really nice rock for our anniversary! We haven’t got much in the way of ornaments or stuff like that, and if I tried to get a vase or some such it’d be all wrong. But I do know my rocks!”

    His senior lecturers just looked at him limply.

    “That sounds lovely,” said Alan Kincaid, smiling very much. “What an excellent idea. I’m sure Catherine would love something like that too. May I?” He took the list. “Mm, they do sound pretty. Some of them are very small, though. This one is described as only 46 millimetres high. –Pink and green.”

    “Could make her a nice pendant or brooch, if you don’t want to start a collection,” said Thomas, grinning.

    “Well, yes, that is an idea! I’m sure the people at Galerie 2 could put me onto the right artisan jeweller to set it… Mm.”

    “But—” began Will Barrington. He broke off, rather red.

    “What is it, Barrington?” said Kincaid nicely.

    “Um, well, it looks to me,” he said on a desperate note, “as if most of this sort of stuff must be, well, virtually contraband!”

    “Oh, undoubtedly.”

    Thomas grinned: clearly the idiots who worked for him, though Kincaid had been their CEO for the entire period of their employment at Sir G.G., had not nearly taken his measure. “Yes, well, never mind that. Apart from the amount of Geology 101 he’s retained and his ability to speak a bit of Pashto, which may or may not verify parts of his story, what’s the verdict? James? You’ve known him longest.”

    “I knew him,” said the Scotsman temperately. “Aye, well… He hasn’t changed much. He’s harder, I’d say, but he was always a hard man. I think he’d handle the students very well. But he’s no respecter of persons, Thomas; you’ve worked with him, you must know that.”

    Thomas looked dry. “Don’t you think I can handle him?”

    “On the contrary, I think if anyone can it’d be you. But I was thinking more along the lines of the Medes and Persians. Can’t see him toeing the regulation line.”

    “In what way?” murmured Kincaid.

    McRae scratched his head. “Well, for one, I don’t think he’ll be up for scaling the marks.”

    Alan Kincaid’s lips tightened. After a moment he said evenly: “I can almost guarantee that if scaling has been introduced, my successor will abolish it.”

    “Good. But—well, take the case of a student who has to support himself—I know they’re in the minority, with the bloody fees the place charges, but we do get some scholarship boys who can barely scrape by with part-time jobs. I’ve been saying for yeas the place ought to introduce a system of graduated hardship grants like Caltech’s,” he reminded him.

    “It’s a matter of stretching the budget,” replied the former CEO, unmoved.

    “Aye, I dare say. Well, anyway, Stan Gorski’s the sort who’d mark a struggling kid who had to work present in a tutorial without a qualm.”

    “Mm. And assignments?”

    “Er—well, no, he might let him get the stuff in a bit late, but he’d insist he get it in. And he’d mark him on the same basis as everyone else, I can promise you that. Well,”—he made a wry face—“he’s a wee bit like his Afghan friends: no quarter.”

    “Good. We don’t want the soft-hearted sort that’ll put sentiment before academic standards,” said Thomas grimly.

    “No. That’s one of my reservations about Dr Lewitt, actually,” murmured Kincaid.

    The two younger men blinked, but Thomas just nodded.

    “Um, but—well, I thought from what he told us of his work with the Aboriginal children, that Gorski is a humanitarian,” Will Barrington objected, frowning over it.

    “Not the same thing, necessarily,” said Thomas. “Well, most of them are soft as butter, yes. Dim do-gooders, not realists.”

    Alan Kincaid smiled. “That hits the nail on the head; I’d say Gorski is the realist par excellence.”

    “Yes, but—I mean, the smuggling?” said the hydrographer limply.

    “Mm. He’s an Australian type—infrequent, these days, but they do still exist. Did you ever see the film Crocodile Dundee?”

    Barrington and McRae looked at him indignantly.

    “It wasn’t entirely a cliché,” he murmured.

    “That’s right, little chums,” said Thomas in a horribly friendly voice, “and we’ve just seen the living proof of it!”

    “Mm. He’s what his fellow-countrymen call ‘a bit of a larrikin’,” said Alan Kincaid in his cultured English accent.

    “I’ve never heard of that expression,” said the New Zealander limply.

    “No, I don’t think it’s crossed the Tasman, Dr Barrington,” the former CEO replied nicely. “It means precisely no respecter of persons, to use your phrase, McRae, and someone who’s up for risk-taking, preferably marginally legal risk-taking. They—er—they use the phrase with… Let me get this right. Emotions ranging from grudging admiration to downright approval.”

    Thomas’s burly shoulders shook. “Right. Got that. Thanks, Alan!”

    “So would you say he’s the best candidate, Dr Kincaid?” asked McRae.

    “Provided that he passes our little tests, yes. But as to whether he’d settle to the job…”

    “That’s a pretty checkered history, aye,” agreed the Scot. “But then, he’s not getting any younger.”

    “True, and as a matter of fact,” said Thomas, the very blue eyes beginning to twinkle, “I rather think there may be—er—a personal factor, let’s say, that will incline him to settle down here.”

    “Oh?” murmured Kincaid, with a lift of the eyebrows. “Lucky lady. Very attractive chap.”

    The two younger men were now looking somewhat taken aback: obviously they were unaccustomed to sizing up the sexual attractiveness of members of their own sex—and had not, in fact, expected such an issue ever to be raised in what should have been a standard interview for a very ordinary position.

    There came a knock on the door, and they all jumped.

    “Already?” muttered McRae, scowling.

    “Impossible!” said Thomas with a sudden laugh. “Come in!” he shouted.

    There was a moment’s pause and then the door opened to reveal a very shy-looking young woman. She was dressed in an ordinary pair of navy cotton slacks and a light turquoise long-sleeved blouse. The only thing to distinguish her from any other of the female students was the pretty floral headscarf. The prejudiced might have referred to this as a hijab but it was in fact just a pretty scarf. It did not entirely conceal her thick black hair and it certainly didn’t conceal her very attractive face.

    Thomas was about to speak but the door was pushed further open and a tall, square-shouldered, bulky young Maori woman appeared, looking contumacious. She awarded Thomas a glare, and said aggressively: “This is Ms Ayubi, and I’m her support person. Dr Gore said you were looking for a Pashto speaker. Why?”

    “Nothing alarming. Thank you for coming over, Ms Ayubi,” said Thomas nicely, getting up. “We’d just like you to tell us whether the gentleman behind you speaks Pashto at all.”

    The support person stood her ground as he came over to them. “Why?”

    Thomas’s subordinates were now eyeing him nervously, but to their relief he merely said: “He’s a candidate for a job with us, and as his references are proving hard to verify we’d just like to check at least one of his claims.”

    “Yes,” said Ms Ayubi, before her support person could utter. “I do it.”

    “Good; thank you very much,” said Thomas, awarding her his nicest smile. “Would you like to speak to him now?”

    “But I am speaking to him.”

    “She means,” said the support person grimly, “that she already spoke to him, see?”

    “In Pashto?” replied Thomas smoothly.

    “Yes, of course,” said Stan’s voice from behind them. “Just calm down, Marama. They don’t want to victimise her, in fact they need her help. Look, just come and sit down, the both of you, and we can have a nice chat.” He then said something to Ms Ayubi in what was presumably Pashto, though none of the geologists could have said if it was, and she smiled, and retreated to the sofa in the anteroom.

    Thomas’s subordinates got up uncertainly, as the candidate sat down in one of the armchairs round the coffee table and the support person took up a militant stance, arms crossed, beside her supported person’s sofa.

    “Shall we go and sit down, too?” murmured Kincaid. “I don’t think we’d better stand, we don’t want to appear dominating or threatening.”

    “No, quite,” Thomas agreed. He went out there and took the chair next to Stan’s. Which left one armchair and the rest of the sofa. Saying nothing, Kincaid took the armchair. The two senior lecturers looked at each other uneasily.

    “Bring a couple of chairs through!” called Thomas.

    Jumping, they did so.

    Their candidate had—apparently—ignored all of this and was chatting mildly with Ms Ayubi. After a bit he stopped and said to them: “She’s out here with her mum and her little brother. Finding English a bit of a struggle, but everyone’s been very kind to her, and Marama, here’s, been a great help.”

    “You even have to help them with the supermarket and everything, eh?” said the sturdy Marama at this point. “I mean, the stuff’s got pictures on it, but all the names are in English. And the food’s a lot different, eh?”

    This last remark being addressed to Ms Ayubi, she nodded and agreed shyly: “The food is a lot different and very much packet.”

    “Yeah, most stuff comes in packets these days, eh? But ya can still get lots of tins, of course. But ya like the fruit and veges, don’tcha?” she prompted. –By this time, alas, the geologists were wondering where in God’s name the university had got her from.

    “Yes, the fruit and veges are very nice,” Ms Ayubi agreed. Suddenly she beamed at her support person. “Kumaras!” she said proudly.

    “Yeah, good, eh?”

    Nodding, Ms Ayubi explained to the gentlemen: “New Zealand kumaras are most delicious.”

    “Yeah. See, her mum, she does this kinda curry with kumaras—their food’s just like Indian food, really,” her support person explained kindly, “and it’s great.”

    “I am very glad you like it,” she said shyly.

    “There ya go,” said Stan blandly—he’d been watching McRae’s and Barrington’s faces with considerable appreciation. “We better let you go back to Dr Gore, Ms Ayubi.” He added something in Pashto and she laughed, pulled her scarf a little further over her face, and, clearly, lodged a disclaimer.

    Stan got up. “Thanks, Marama, ya been great,” he said simply, holding out his hand.

    Ms Ayubi’s support person emitted a startled guffaw, said gruffly: “Heck, that’s okay, it’s my job, eh?” and wrung the proffered hand fervently.

    After which the candidate showed the ladies politely to the door, thanking them both again.

    “Well, that seems to be that,” said Thomas with a laugh in his voice. “If that was Pashto.”

    “Yeah, hah, hah,” replied Stan, unmoved.

    “Of course it was,” said Alan Kincaid, smiling. “Couldn’t you hear it? Not unlike the Indian languages but with a definite suggestion of Arabic.”

    The two senior lecturers goggled at him.

    “Yep, that pretty much sums it up. I’ve read some of your early linguistics stuff, actually, Dr Kincaid,” noted the candidate in an offhand voice. “Toeing the Establishment line, weren’tcha?”

    Two of those present cringed but Kincaid replied calmly: “Of course. Publish or perish.”

    “Uh-huh. I enjoyed Elizabethan Bawdy, though. Ya musta had fun writing it.”

    “I did,” he admitted, smiling. “Though I disclaim all responsibility for those illustrations!”

    “Yeah, that woulda been your publishers, would it?”

    “Oh, certainly. Now, can we take it that you managed to get through some of that geology paper before the ladies arrived?”

    “Well, yeah, I’ve done half of it.”

    “What?” said McRae in spite of himself. “That’s a three-hour paper!”

    “Well, it didn’t oughta be. Didn’t think you’d teach at that level, Jimbo. Ole Professor Crowther woulda had a fit.”

    McRae looked uneasily at Thomas. “It’s only a mid-year paper.”

    “Yes, well, hand it over, Gorski, and your answers,” he said, holding out his hand.

    Meekly Stan handed them over.

    Thomas scanned them rapidly. He sniffed slightly, and handed them to McRae.

    “Um, yes,” that worthy noted feebly.

    “A, double plus,” said Thomas in a sardonic voice. “Got anything more to tell us, Gorski? Why you want the job, for instance?”

    “Personal reasons. Want to move to these parts,” he replied blandly.

    “Right. Very well, I think that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. –Alan?”

    “Merely, given your track record, Dr Gorski, do you see yourself sticking with the job?”

    “Yeah. Unless your university starts mining in international waters or walks out of a Third-World country leaving a huge environmental mess behind it,” he replied very drily indeed.

    “Oh, was that why—” Barrington broke off.

    Stan eyed him drily. “Yeah.”

    “Anyone else want to ask him anything?” said Thomas.

    The two younger men both shook their heads.

    “That’s it, then,” he concluded.

    “It was very nice to meet you, Dr Gorski,” said Kincaid nicely, holding out his hand. “I hope we’ll have the opportunity to meet again.”

    “Thanks,” replied Stan simply, shaking.

    “Come on, I’ll see you out,” decided Thomas. With this he put a heavy hand on Stan’s shoulder and steered him out of the room.

    Stan said nothing until they’d reached the ground floor by way of the lift. Then he said: “I do remember me way back, actually.”

    “Never thought you didn’t. Look, if we offer you this job you’re going to have to toe the bloody line.”

    “Not a nit, thanks, Baranski.”

    “No, well, just so long as you realise it. At least you won’t have to deal with the bloody Administration, at your level. Though maybe this new CEO will be okay. Well, he’s Alan’s choice, so we can but hope. But an organisation this size does need to run on Medes and Persians, you know.”

    “Sure. I’m not opposed to discipline, so long as it isn’t unreasoned discipline.”

    Thomas took a deep breath. “I am not going to get into any sort of argument with you, Gorski.”

    “You’ve learned that much since the Timor Sea, then,” Stan conceded.

    “Uh—tried to, yes.” Thomas rumpled his curls. “A lot since I’ve been here. It’s been no sinecure working for Alan, though, to tell you the truth. Not that I ever expected it would be—Leigh and I knew him back in Blighty. Tried it on a few times, just after I started—testing him, kind of thing. Skipped a bloody wing-ding for the bloody Chancellor: he had me on the mat and read me the riot act. Most of the tits that have worked for him over the years think he’s a cold fish, but he’s not. Still waters run deep; mad about his dear little wife. Oh—that thing about the boots.”

    “Uh—yeah?” said Stan looking down at them in a startled way.

    “He’s quite genuinely nuts on horses: he’s running a Palomino stud cum riding-school, these days. If you want riding, there’s plenty of opportunity. Don’t like horses, myself. Big teeth and big feet, and bloody unreliable. Prefer engines,” said Thomas the Tank Engine cheerfully.

    “Talking of which, why the Hell is James McRae setting Geology 101 papers?”

    Thomas scratched his chin. “Well, we’re both agreed that the First-Year kids—oh, by the way, calling them that is a no-no here—we’re both agreed that they need an experienced lecturer who can pitch the stuff at the right level, at the same time making sure it does sink in. But he doesn’t mark all the first-year stuff: he’s got slaves he can pass that on to.”

    “Glad to hear it. So if I got this job I’d be one of the slaves, would I?”

    “Pretty much, yes,” replied Thomas smoothly.

    “I getcha. Better than gutting fish for a living.”

    “Er—well, yes. Oh—talking of matters gustatorial, Stan, come to dinner this evening. Dorothy’d love to meet you. If we’re in luck it’ll be her casserole, the one that the oven can usually be trusted not to burn if she speaks to it sternly.”

    Stan gave a surprised laugh. “Well, thanks, Thomas! That’d be nice. Look, I think I can make it, but I’ll let you know if I can’t, okay?”

    “Yes, of course. I’m on this side of the Inlet: the next section up—thataway,” he said, pointing. “Right at the end of the road, you can’t miss it. –Hang on, old man, the carpark’s this way,” he added, grabbing his arm.

    “Nah: heading down to the Inlet, thanks, Thomas.”

    Thomas swallowed hard. “Right. Okay, I’ll leave you here, then. Uh—dinner about sevenish?”

    “Good-oh,” Stan agreed. Since Baranski was sticking out his mitt he shook it firmly, said “See ya!” and, assuming the cream straw cowboy hat which had earlier adorned the coffee table in the anteroom and to which McRae’s and Barrington’s eyes had become glued during his conversation with Ms Ayubi, headed off towards the water.

    Thomas tottered back inside, barely capable of shoving the lift button with his fist. “Just don’t utter,” he adjured the conference room generally as he tottered over to the executive sideboard and opened it. “Thank God!” He hauled the Scotch out and poured himself a hefty belt.

    “My dear chap, it wasn’t that bad, surely?” said Kincaid in astonishment,

    “Huh? Oh. Not that, not that,” he sighed. “Talk about pre-empted! Already? Jesus, when did he— Never mind. Oh, my God, and I’ll have to break it to Dorothy! Oh, shit.”

    His subordinates were now staring at him in consternation.

    Alan Kincaid cleared his throat. “I rather think this is nothing to do with the candidate’s fitness for the job, my dear fellows.”

    “No,” groaned Thomas. “Nothing at all.”

    “Well, what is it, man?” cried McRae.

    “The man’s— Just take it that I’m pretty damn sure I know who his lady friend is, James. And my wife is going to— Oh, Jesus!”

    “Have another,” said Kincaid kindly, fetching the bottle.

    “Thanks,” said Thomas numbly. “I thought I was being clever,” he admitted numbly. “I was planning a little trap, you see, because I suspected— Never mind. God: already? I never for a moment imagined…”

    “Yes, well, some of us did think that the ladies would find him attractive,” said Kincaid, looking at him in some amusement. “Did you notice that he even wound the sturdy support person round his little finger?”

    “Yes!” replied Thomas viciously. “Uh—shit. Sorry, Alan.”

    “Didn’t it dawn when you worked with him on that Timor Sea project? Never saw him with a woman?”

    “Haven’t we had this convers— Oh: no. Er—no, Alan, the only women I saw him with were hard-faced, hard-bitten barmaids in what Australia refers to as The Top End, or vicious little tarts in the dingy bars of ditto. He wasn’t with the tarts, you prats,” he said to his subordinates’ shocked faces, “he was wrenching them off the stupid lads who were working with us!”

    “Naturally,” said Kincaid smoothly. “Very responsible sort of chap, then?”

    ‘Yes,” said Thomas dully.

    “Perhaps you should go home for lunch and tell Dorothy who her dinner guest will be. I really think that we all need to—er—take a little time out and gather our wits before we finalise anything. We could meet again tomorrow, if that suits.”

    “Yes,” said McRae in relief. “Come on, Will. –Just let us know when, Thomas.” With that he led his colleague away, he himself swallowing a grin and Barrington looking relieved but bewildered.

    Alan Kincaid poured himself a whisky and sat down, saying nothing.

    Thomas breathed deeply. Then he revealed: “He’s headed down to the Inlet. I asked him to dinner and he said he could probably make it.”

    “Polly Carrano?” he suggested delicately.

    Thomas shuddered all over. “Shut—up,” he said faintly, covering his eyes with his hand. “Two days ago—I swear it was only two days, Alan—the woman was looking gloomy as Hell and Winkelmann and I—we didn’t know for sure who it was, mind you—we were convinced that either it had gone nowhere or the chap had dumped her or hadn’t contacted her, or that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination!”

    At this the man who for the last dozen years or so had been respected and feared by something like seven hundred people who worked for him, and who was known in academic circles on both sides of the world as “the Iceman”, broke down in roars of laughter.

Next chapter:

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