Giles Goat Boy (63 page)

“Come along,” I told them. “I want a seat near the Chancellor.”

“The Grand Tutor says He’ll meet you at the Grateway Exit after the address,” Mrs. Sear said. “Kennard’s going there now with your Clean Bill of Health.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“No bother at all,” said Dr. Sear. “I’m very honored to have met a potential Candidate for the Real Thing. Which reminds me—” He took from a nearby desk drawer a small round mirror mounted on a spring-clip. “It’s customary to give a little gift on matriculation-day; something to represent what we wish for the new Candidate. Will you take this?”

I thanked him politely and inquired whether I was correct in believing it to be a mirror.

“Yes. May I clip it on your stick? One side’s concave and the other convex, but that’s neither here nor there.” As he clipped the mirror down near the point of my stick, his manner grew serious. “As you know, George, I think that Knowledge of the University, no matter what it costs, is the only Commencement we can hope for. Even if the price is flunking, which it is. When you look at this mirror I hope you’ll remember that there’s always another way of seeing things: that’s the beginning of wisdom.”

I thanked him again, quite touched, and sighted down the stick-shaft to try my new token. All I saw, actually, was the magnified reflection of my eye—perhaps because one of Dr. Eierkopf’s lenses was loose on its pivot and swung into my line of vision—but I understood the point.

“You can look up co-eds’ dresses with it, too,” Mrs. Sear observed. “That’s what
we
do.”

“Really, Hed!”

I promised I would call on them that evening, if I could. The guards chuckled respectfully, quite unsuspicious now, and thanking me for not reporting them, escorted me through the tabled Registration Room to a large auditorium, the Assembly-Before-the-Grate. It was filled with spring registrants, who called and whistled as I went down the aisle in my hospital garment. Whenever a guard looked doubtfully at us my escorts shrugged; we were not challenged. I chose a seat on the front row with the unsucessful athletes and turned to wave modestly at my admirers. Two young men with press-cards on their lapels approached, but before I learned what they wanted the houselights dimmed, the rostrum was spotlit, and a
young man sprang to the microphones to say: “Ladies and gentlemen: the Chancellor of New Tammany College!”

A brass band in the rear of the hall struck up a lively march; the assemblage clapped and stamped their feet enthusiastically, even paraded in the aisles; hats of indifferently flavored straw sailed ceilingwards, also tasty paper streamers of which I made a second breakfast as I watched. From nowhere banners and placards appeared, whereon, above the slogan W
E
L
OVE
L
UCKY
, was represented the smiling face of a handsome though beardless young man, the same I’d seen on the wall of the Control Room. His teeth were excellent; twinkling crow’s-feet at his eyes belied the responsible furrow of his brow, and a forelock of his bright fair hair would not be ruled but must dangle front, in groomed independence of its fellows. A spotlight fastened upon the side-curtains of the stage, and the placard-man strode in, attended by aides and guards. His build was not unlike my own, short and springy, but his hair and skin were fairer and his eyes bright blue. His assistants, I observed, were youthful-appearing also and given to forelocks, but their coats were dark, whereas the Chancellor’s was fine light linen.

A young woman behind me cried to her neighbor, “Isn’t he a
doll?
” Another could say nothing, but squealed like a shoat. Though his administration was not new, and its record of accomplishment not extraordinary (so Max had told me, whose admiration for the Chancellor was sternly qualified), Lucius Rexford was clearly adored by young undergraduates. He lifted his hand slightly and a little stiffly to acknowledge the tumult, as if it embarrassed him; but his eyes were merry, even mischievous, and when a group of co-eds pressed between Stoker’s guards to shower roses in his path, he grinned, stepped out of his way to pick up a white boutonniere, and shook several hands over the footlights while his attendants fidgeted. In vain their waves for silence when he reached the rostrum; only the playing of NTC’s Varsity Anthem brought order to the hall:

As we stood in the ringing echo of this plea a dark-frocked dignitary raised both hands: everyone present (excepting myself, who was ignorant of the rite, and some turbaned chaps in the Visitors’ Gallery) closed his eyes, pressed fingertips to temples, and recited with the dignitary the traditional
Grand Tutor’s Petition
from the New Syllabus:

As heads were raised and the registrants took their seats, Chancellor Rexford grinned and said into the microphones, “Let’s have a little light on my subjects!” In the applause that greeted this request, the houselights came on and someone said cynically into my ear, “That’s a slogan from the last elections.” It was Stoker, accompanied once more by Peter Greene. The sight of them annoyed me; I had too much on my mind to put up with Stoker’s teasing and Greene’s peculiar childishness. But the late Dean o’ Flunks returned my shophar and dismissed the two guards, for which favors I was grateful enough, and Greene whispered congratulations on my passage through the Turnstile.

“Now we get the lights,” Stoker predicted. “My brother’s a nut on this
light
business.” And indeed, the Chancellor’s next words were that matriculation-gifts from Mrs. Rexford and himself would be distributed among us while he made a few preliminary announcements. I found his manner engaging: the exuberant youthfulness that in Peter Greene took a sometimes irritating form, Lucky Rexford combined with apparent good breeding and self-discipline; his speech, dress, and demeanor were restrained; the responsibilities of his office he seemed to address as he addressed us: seriously, but with grace, wit, and gusto. Forelocked aides now nimbly moved up the aisles with pasteboard cartons from which they handed out small silver pocket-torches. Others moved discreetly to the rostrum from time to time to lay message-papers beside the Chancellor’s notes. The room grew silent (except for the clicking of flashlight-switches)
and expectant, for it was Lucius Rexford’s custom to preface his speeches with often surprising announcements.

He leafed through the bulletins, selected one, and said: “I’m sorry to report that the Department of Military Science has been told by WESCAC that a new series of EAT-tests was initiated in Nikolay College last night.” A stir went through the room. “In view of this news,” the Chancellor said briskly, “I’ve authorized the Military Science Department on WESCAC’s advice to proceed with our ANTEATer test series, which you recall was suspended provisionally three terms ago, when the Boundary Conference convened. We’ve also made a formal protest to the Board of Directors of Nikolay College, and I’ll address the University Council in a day or so on this and related matters.” He smiled grimly and took up a different paper. “While I’m at it, here’s some more bad news: WESCAC reports that two more NTC Power-Line Inspectors were EATen just before dawn this morning, in the neutral strip between the East- and West-Campus power cables. This is a clear violation of the Boundary-Conference ground rules established last semester, and I’ve ordered our riot-research programmers to ask WESCAC whether or not NTC should withdraw from the Conference. I’ll make the full text of the reply public as soon as it’s read out.”

The audience murmured angrily. Greene pounded his fist on the chair-arm. “
Doggone
those Nikolayans! We ought to EAT the whole durn crowd!”

He spoke loudly enough for Rexford to hear, who smiled in our direction until he caught sight of Maurice Stoker. Then his eyes dropped quickly to his lecture-notes, and he seemed to redden slightly.

“Mr. Greene’s not the only one who’s been turned into an EATnik by this sort of thing,” he declared. His use of the popular slang-term for believers in “preventive riot” drew laughter from the crowd. “We all get tired of being patient and responsible,” he said. “It’s very tempting to turn our backs on moderation and call for radical measures …” He gave Stoker a sharp look. “And there’s always someone ready to take advantage of our impulses in that direction, unfortunately.”

The rest of his remark on this head I missed, for the flashlight-man had reached our row, and I must examine my gift. I moved the switch to
ON
, but nothing happened. None of the others lit, either, I observed. Peter Greene shook his at his ear and said, “Shucks, they didn’t put no batteries in! Why’d I throw mine away?”

Stoker grinned. “Next time don’t be so wasteful.”

Greene then kindly installed my batteries for me, and in the process
noticed for the first time the new mirror on my stick, which so upset him that he had to excuse himself and take another seat.

“What a prize!” Stoker marveled after him. “Did I tell you he thinks Stacey’s a virgin, and wants to marry her? He actually had a fight last night with a Nikolayan chap, over her
honor!
” He shook his head as if in awe—all his attitudes were
as if
, for that matter: one sensed their calculatedness and wondered uneasily what his real motives might be. “My brother has blind spots, too, but at least he’s not demented.”

I might have protested both his abuse of Greene and his claim to kinship with Lucius Rexford, which seemed preposterous now I’d seen the pair of them; but I was clearly being baited, and wanted moreover not to miss what the Chancellor was saying.

“So many extraordinary things have happened in the last twenty-four hours,” Rexford said, reading from his notes now, “that we can scarcely begin to assimilate them as facts, much less see clearly what they imply. Yesterday, for instance, many people were complaining that only a new Grand Tutor could solve the great problems that the Free Campus faces …” He favored me with a brilliant smile. “Today, by my count, we have at least two full-fledged Grand Tutors in New Tammany, and a Candidate for a third.” Many eyes turned to me, but their amusement, in the spirit of the Chancellor’s, was friendly, and though it turned out he meant I was the Candidate, and Bray and The Living Sakhyan the full-fledged Tutors, I could not resent his misunderstanding.

“Frankly, I find this a happy state of affairs,” he went on, “and I’m sure we can work out some cooperative arrangement with these gentlemen to everyone’s benefit.”

Stoker whispered loudly to me, “He could work out a cooperative arrangement between Enos Enoch and the Dean o’ Flunks.” People hissed at him to be quiet; apparently they regarded as out of place here the irreverence they’d been amused by before Main Gate. But Stoker only farted. Chancellor Rexford went on to express his shock and regret at the unhappy allegations against Dr. Max Spielman, whom he said he’d always regarded as the very image of gentle enlightenment; he assured us that the case would be investigated thoroughly and justice done, and entreated us not to let either liberal sympathy or conservative antipathy tempt us from dispassionate judgment of the evidence as it was brought to light. Finally he announced a new Field-Certification Program outlined by WESCAC for pre-Graduates—which was to say, virtually everyone—as an official alternative to Commencement. It was a step that the College had been reluctant to take thitherto, for while everyone agreed that few people really took the Finals any more, if indeed the Finals existed at all, yet no responsible person wanted to repudiate New Tammany’s Moishio-Enochist heritage, which held Graduation to be the aim of campus life. In consequence, though everyone still had officially to aspire to Commencement, there was no agreement on what defined it; no degrees were awarded, nor in fact were any sought. From this somewhat demoralizing impasse (which I must say Rexford himself seemed not terribly distressed by) no practical egress had been found until WESCAC’s affirmation of Harold Bray as an authentic Grand Tutor. Now the plan was to make
de jure
what had long been recognized
de facto:
that a Certificate of Proficiency in the Field was all a modern undergraduate need aspire to, or a modern college award. To the Enochist objection that such a policy devaluated Final Examination and true Commencement, it could now be answered that a bonafide Grand Tutor was in residence, whose function it would be to review and authenticate the status of any who presently claimed Candidacy or actual Graduateship, and to act as Examiner of all future Candidates. In addition, having apparently demonstrated already that he could enter WESCAC’s Belly and return unEATen, Dr. Bray was to be given Cabinet rank in Tower Hall, with final responsibility for WESCAC’s AIM—a move proposed by the computer itself.

Needless to say, I heard these things with heavy heart. To pass the Trial-by-Turnstile, even to penetrate Scrapegoat Grate—these were mere physical stunts, however difficult. But to deal with so suddenly established a pretender, to Pass All and not Fail Anything, when I had no firm notion of what Commencement was, or how to achieve it! Yet my distress became determination—stubbornness at least—under Maurice Stoker’s needling.

“Your friend Bray’s got the edge on you,” he’d whisper, or urge, “Jump up and declare yourself, George, the way Bray did! Eat Lucky’s lecture-notes—that’d shut him up.” The temptation to do some such spectacular thing was strong, the more since I’d seen Bray’s success. And the situation was opportune: Chancellor Rexford’s address was doubtless being broadcast everywhere in New Tammany, perhaps all over West Campus, and my success at the Turnstile not only confirmed that I was no Regular Freshman but lent me a certain notoriety which might be made use of before it passed. So keenly did I wish to seize the moment, in fact, that only Stoker’s urging me to do so kept me from it—and perhaps a disinclination to follow Bray’s pattern. Uncanny, how the man played upon one! No sooner did I shush him than he said, “D’you really think you
should sit still just because I tell you to move? That puts you completely in my hands.”