Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (55 page)

 
          
"I
have always held that a proper English tea is a civilizing influence," Dr.
Newland said firmly, "and I will admit, I am pleased to be entertaining a
fellow tea-drinker. Will you pour?"

 
          
It
was not the most bizarre circumstance Colin had ever experienced
—
to discover that whether or
not he got the job he'd come to interview for hinged not on his qualifications,
but on his preference for tea over coffee
—
and he was no believer in
accident at the best of times. Though he possessed no psychic gifts, Colin
began to believe that he had been foredestined to take Dr. New-land's place.

 
          
As
they chatted over tea and cakes, Colin found that Reynard Newland was a
parapsychologist of the old school. His interests lay almost exclusively with
ghosts
—
that
most subjective of psychic phenomena
—
and he took very little interest
in quantifiable talents such as clairvoyance and psychokinesis. Needless to
say, Dr. Newland's worldview did not even admit of the possibility of nonhuman
noncorporeal entities, and Colin was wise enough not to raise the question. But
it became tragically easy to see how the Bidney Institute had dwindled over
the last few decades to simply an extension of Dr. Newland's avocation, and why
the college considered it to be moribund
—
overfunded
—
dead wood.

 
          
"But
surely it would be very difficult for the college to simply assume the Bidney
endowment?" Colin asked a little while later.

 
          
"Oh,
dear me, no, young man. Taghkanic has always been the residuary legatee for the
bequest. In the event that the Bidney Prize were to be awarded, the endowment
fund would certainly have to be liquidated to pay it out, and in the event that
the institute can no longer support itself afterward, any balance of funds is
to be paid to the college."

 
          
Margaret
Bidney s entire fortune had been willed to fund research into the psychic
sciences
—
incidentally creating the Bidney Institute
—
but her will also made
proviso for a prize of one million dollars to be awarded to the individual who
conclusively provided absolute and verifiable proof of paranormal abilities.
Though competitors had been attempting to attain it for over half a century,
the prize had never been claimed.

 
          
"I
don't suppose you consider the possibility of someone winning the prize very
likely?" Colin asked diffidently.

 
          
"Oh,
my, no," Dr. Newland said, smiling gently. "When I came here back in
the thirties, I'll admit that I was all on fire with the thought that someone
might come in and claim the prize at any moment, revolutionizing the world of
science as we then knew it
—
and certainly a week didn't seem to pass without someone
trying for it. But the criteria for its bestowal are so very strict
—
this is one of the reasons
why the institute keeps a stage illusionist on retainer
—
that no one has ever managed
to claim it."

 
          
"A
magician is a very wise idea," Colin agreed.

 
          
"Oh,
Miss Bidney wasn't at all softheaded
—
I had the privilege of
meeting her once, as a young man
—
though naturally people tend to equate a belief in the
Spirit World with gullibility. Anyone who successfully claims the prize will
have earned it indeed."

 
          
By
the time that Colin signed the contract that made him director of the Bidney
Institute a few weeks later, he felt that he'd worked as hard as any of those
hopeful contestants for the million-dollar prize.

 
          
Though
in one sense he felt that it was preordained that he become the institute's
new director, in another, there were a large number of people to convince. The
institute's board of directors, for one, and the president of
Taghkanic
College
, for another. Neither was
easy, for opposite reasons.

 
          
Next,
there was all the minutia of relocation to attend to, though fortunately he'd
wound up his involvement with Selkie Press right on schedule, and Alan had even
found a buyer for his backlist
—
Blackcock Books, spurred by the success of John Cannon's
postmortem bestseller, had decided to take a strong position in New Age titles.

 
          
Fortunately,
Colin was lucky enough to obtain a lease on an old Colonial-period farmhouse
out on
Greyangels Road
. It was only about a
half-hour drive from the institute
—
at least in good weather.
The place had a peace and solitude that reminded him of the house he'd grown up
in, and the view from the bedroom windows
—
of the apple orchard and the
river beyond
—
was breathtaking. He'd moved into the farmhouse in time to
enjoy the full glory of a Hudson Valley summer, finding to his relief
—
since there was no possibility
of installing an air conditioner with the house's wiring in the state it was
—
that the proximity of the
river tempered the heat and the humidity to something closer to the northern
California summers he'd been spoiled by.

 
          
He'd
be taking over the directorship in September. At the moment the institute
followed Taghkanic's academic year, one of the many things Colin intended to
change. There was no reason for that, just as there was no reason for all of
the institute's staff to be accredited teachers and members of the Taghkanic
faculty. The more Colin reviewed conditions at the institute, the more he found
things that he wanted to alter. Fortunately
—
despite the board of
directors of the institute and the trustees of the college
—
the director had sweeping
powers to define the institute's mandate, and Colin intended to exercise them
in full.

 
          
Even
while he was settling in to his new job, Colin kept up with the news from
San Francisco
, and little of it was good.

 
          
Simon
had been sent home at last, though a long series of operations was still
scheduled for his hand and eye. He was walking
—
even driving
—
without particular
difficulty, and had even accepted a post as guest conductor at the symphony for
the 1974
—
75 season.

 
          
But
Alison reported that he was as determined as ever to play again, and was
willing to go to any lengths
—
and for Simon, that meant magick
—
to regain his full
abilities as a musician. She had all but severed her relationship with him, and
made sure that the local occult community knew of her displeasure. Once Simon
would have been crushed by that, but now
—
according to Claire, who'd
remained Colin's faithful correspondent
—
he'd simply laughed and
marked Alison's behavior down to the timidity of old age. Claire was still
staying with Alison, but by now she'd lost all hope of being able to intervene
with Simon and was planning to return East.

 
          
Colin
had debated the wisdom of interceding himself, attempting to awaken Simon to
the spiritual danger he was in, but from the first time they'd met, he and
Simon had always tended to clash. It would be too easy for Colin's intervention
simply to antagonize Simon and drive him further down the reckless path he was
following.

 
          
In
the end, Colin had written Simon a careful, formally-worded letter, laying out
the arguments against Simon's present course of action with scrupulous
disinterest, though his own psyche still smarted from the aftereffects of his
own disastrous choice.

 
          
He'd
received no reply, but Colin made a solemn vow not to give up on Simon, though
it might be years before Simon was ready to listen to him. In the meantime, he
threw himself wholeheartedly into the work of the institute.

 
          
I'll
never get used to these blessed monkey suits,
Colin thought resignedly, cautiously
tugging his bow tie into shape in the blotchy bathroom mirror. But the
invitation had specified formal dress, and Colin had already learned that since
the nearby artist's colony was capable of putting on the style on occasion,
the college followed suit.

 
          
The
party tonight would be at President Quiller's house, and the occasion was the
formal announcement of Colin's appointment and his introduction to college
society.

 
          
He
wasn't looking forward to this. But politics seemed to be a function of every
human endeavor, and he knew perfectly well that his appointment was not popular
with the elements of the administration that had hoped to see the institute
dismantled at Dr. Newland's retirement.

 
          
While
Colin sympathized intellectually with the college's administrative plight, he
thought that the administration should be focusing on the good the institute
could do for the college. Properly run, the parapsychology program could
certainly generate a respectable amount of revenue through student tuitions
alone. And its value to the college in terms of research and prestige could
hardly be overestimated.

 
          
All
he needed to do, Colin thought wryly, was sell them on that.

 
          
President
Quiller's house was on campus, an exuberant example of Riverboat Gothic built
almost a hundred years ago on a bluff overlooking the
Hudson
. Light streamed out through
the mansion's windows, glittering in deep scarlets and greens. There was a
gravel drive in front with several other cars parked in it, and Colin pulled
his new Volvo in at the end of them. He'd had to replace the van
—
dependable though it was
—
simply because he'd be doing
a lot more driving here, and under worse conditions. And because, much though
he deplored it, he'd have to live up to certain expectations of behavior
suitable to the Bidney Institute director.

 
          
Though
sunset came early here in the
Hudson
Valley
, there was still enough
light when Colin arrived to give him a breathtaking view of the river, the far
bank reduced to a black silhouette against the shining sky. After a moment's
appreciation, he turned to the house.

 
          
Leonie
Nesbit opened the front door as he ascended the steps. She was wearing a velvet
pantsuit in a dark jewel print with an extravagantly ruffled blouse.

 
          
"Doctor
MacLaren!" she chirped excitedly. "Come in!"

 
          
"About
half the guests are here now," she said, ushering Colin into the main
parlor. "Dr. Quiller is having the college for cocktails and then just
department heads and the institute for dinner, so you can get to meet
them."

           
And then the college will have
the institute for breakfast,
Colin finished sardonically. Well, he would
do the best he could to smooth things over, though he knew it would be a task
of months, perhaps years. A great work, but one he felt equal to.

 
          
"Colin!"
Dr. Newland's greeting was filled with genuine warmth. "Come in, dear boy,
and meet everyone. Harold
—
President Quiller
—
is here somewhere ... at
least, I'm sure I saw him just a few minutes ago. ..."

 
          
At
fifty-three, Colin reflected, there were fewer and fewer people who were
entitled to address him as "dear boy," but Dr. Newland had that
privilege if anyone did. Leonie tactfully dropped back, and Colin allowed
himself to be conducted by Dr. Newland in search of their host.