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.There was mist on my windshield; I couldn’t be sure.”She told him about Jackson’s friend’s umbrella, thinking now he’llexplain, this is what he came to say.But he added nothing, and she found herself hesitant to ask about the student in the parking lot.“Is there anything else I can do for you, Dr.Weyland?”“I don’t mean to keep you from your work.One thing.Would youcome over and do a session for me in the sleep lab?”She shook her head.“All the information goes on tapes under coded I.D.numbers, Mrs.deGroot.Your privacy would be strictly guarded.”“I would prefer not to.”“Excuse me then.It was a pleasure to talk with you,” he said, rising.“If you find a reason to change your mind, my extension is one sixty-three.”* * * *She was close to tears, but Uncle Jan made her strip down the gunagain-her first gun, her own gun-and then the lion coughed, and she sawwith the wide gaze of fear his golden form crouched, tail lashing, in the thornbush.As her pony shied she threw up her gun and fired, and the dust boiled up from the thrashings of the wounded cat.Then Scotty’s patient voice said, “Do it again,” and she was tearingdown the rifle once more by lamplight at the worn wooden table while her mother sewed with angry stabs of the needle and spoke words Katje didn’t bother hearing because she knew the gist by heart: “If only Jan had children of his own! Sons, preferably, to take out hunting with Scotty.Because he has no sons, he takes Katje out shooting instead so he can show howtough Boer youngsters are, even a girl.For whites to kill for sport, as Jan and Scotty do, is to go backward into the barbaric past of Africa.Now the farm is producing; there is no need to kill for hides to get cash for coffee, salt, and tobacco.And to train a girl to go stalking and killing animals like scarcely more than an animal herself!”“Again,” said Scotty, and the lion coughed, making the pony shiverunder her; Katje woke.She was sitting in front of the tv, blinking at the sharp, knowing face of the talk-show host.The sound had gone off again, and she had dozed.She didn’t often dream, hardly ever of Africa.Why now? Because, she thought, Dr.Weyland had roused her memory.She thought he looked a bit likeScotty, the neighboring farmer whom Uncle Jan had begun by calling adamned rooinek and ended treating like a brother.She got up and hit the tv to make it speak again and sat down towatch with an apple in her hand.Lately she ate too much, out of boredom.Would she grow stout like her mother? It was Dr.Weyland who had brought this worry to the surface of her mind, no proper concern of a middle-aged widow.It was Dr.Weyland who had stirred up that long-ago girlhood spent prowling for game in the bright, dissolving landscape of tan grass.“Under the bed; do you think?” Miss Donelly dropped on her knees tolook.The guest lecturer had left her hairbrush behind.Katje forbore to point out that this was the sort of thing to be expected of someone who put on track clothes and ran inside the house.A student flung open the bedroom door and leaned in: “Is it too late tohand in my paper, Miss Donelly?”“For God’s sake, Mickey,” Miss Donelly burst out, “where did you get that?”Across the chest of the girl’s T-shirt where her coat gapped openwere emblazoned the words SLEEP WITH WEYLAND.HE’S A DREAM.She grinned.“Some hustler is selling them right outside the co-op.Better hurry if you want one-Security’s already been sent for.” She giggled, put a sheaf of dog-eared pages down on the chair by the door, added “Thanks,Miss Donelly,” and clattered away down the stairs.Miss Donelly sat back on her heels and laughed.“Well, I never, as mygrandma used to say.That man is turning this school into a circus!”“These young people have no respect for anything,” Katje said,“What will Dr.Weyland say, seeing his name used like that? He shouldhave her expelled.”“Him? He’ll barely notice.But Wacker will throw fits.” Miss Donelly got up, dusting her hands.She ran a finger over the blistered paint on thewindowsill.“Pity they can’t use some of the loot Weyland brings in to really fix this old place up.But I guess we can’t complain.Without Weyland this would be just another expensive little backwater school for the not so bright children of the upper middle class.And it isn’t all rose’s even for him; this T-shirt thing will bring on a fresh bout of backbiting among his colleagues, you watch.This kind of incident brings out the jungle beast in even the mildest academics.”Katje snorted.She didn’t think much of academic infighting.“I know we must seem pretty tame to you,” Miss Donelly said wryly,“but there are some real ambushes and even killings here, in terms ofcareers.It’s not the cushy life it sometimes seems, and not so secureeither.“Even you may be in a little trouble, Mrs.de Groot, though I hope not.Only a few weeks ago there was a complaint from a faculty member thatyou upset his guests by something you said-”“I said they couldn’t set up a dart board in here,” Katje respondedcrisply.“There are others who don’t like your politics-”“I never speak about politics,” Katje said, offended.That was the firstthing Henrik had demanded of her here.She had acquiesced like a good wife; not that she was ashamed of her political beliefs.She had loved and married Henrik not because but in spite of his radical politics.“From your silence they assume you’re some kind of reactionaryracist,” Miss Donelly said.“And because you’re a Boer and don’t carry on your husband’s crusade.Then there are the ones who say you’re just tooold and stuffy for the job, meaning you scare them a little, and they’d rather have a giggly cocktail waitress or a downtrodden mouse of a workingstudent.But you’ve got plenty of partisans too, and even Wacker knows you give this place tone and dignity.They ought to double your salary.You’re solid and dependable, even if you are a little, well, old-fashioned.And you lived a real life in the world, whatever your values, which is more than most of our faculty has ever done.” She stopped, blushing, and moved towardthe door.“Well, when that hairbrush turns up just put it aside for me, will you? Thank you, Mrs.de Groot.”Katje said, “Thank you, too.” That girl was as softheaded as everyonearound here, but she had a good heart.Many of the staff had already left for vacation during intercession, now that new scheduling had freed everyone from doing special intensivecourses between semesters.The last cocktail hour at the club was thinly attended.Katie moved among the drinkers, gathering loaded ashtrays,used glasses, rumpled napkins.A few people greeted her as she passed.There were two major topics of conversation: the bio student who hadbeen raped last night as she left the library, and the Weyland T-shirt or, rather, Weyland himself.They said he was a disgrace, encouraging commercial exploitation ofhis name.He was probably getting a cut of the profits; no he wasn’t, didn’t need to, he was a superstar with plenty of income, no dependents, and no tastes except for study and work.And that beautiful Mercedes-Benz of his, don’t forget.No doubt that was where he was this evening-not off on aholiday or drinking cheap club booze but tearing around the countryside in his beloved car
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