relationship. To come here was to learn everything of everything, or so they wished to suggest.”
“Really?” says Pitry.
“Yes,” says Shara. “But this is not the original university. The original was lost during the War.”
“After the Blink, you mean,” says Nidayin. “It vanished with most of Bulikov. Right?”
Shara ignores him. “The university has been rebuilt based on sketches and art made before the War. Bulikov was very insistent it be re-created exactly as it was: they tore down a great deal of the surviving ancient architecture so the university could be rebuilt with genuine ancient stone. They wanted it to be authentic—or at least,” she says, gently touching a gas lamp, “as authentic as one could make it while still allowing certain modern conveniences.”
“How do you know all that?” asks Pitry.
Shara adjusts her glasses. “What sort of classes do they teach here?”
“Erm, these days, mostly economics,” says Nidayin. “Commerce. Basic job training, as well. Chiefly because the polis has made a concerted effort to become a financial player in the world. Part of the New Bulikov movement, which has had a bit of backlash lately since some people are interpreting it as modernization. Which it is, really. There’re sporadic protests around the university campus, most of the time. Either about New Bulikov, or, well …”
“About Dr. Pangyui,” says Shara.
“Yes.”
“I suppose,” says Pitry as he absently examines the doors, “that they can’t teach history.”
“Not much, no,” says Nidayin. “What history they teach is strictly regulated, due to the WR. The Regulations sort of cripple everything they do here. And they have trouble teaching science and basic physics, since for so long things here didn’t function by basic physics. And in some places, they still don’t.”
Of course, thinks Shara. How do you teach people science when the local sunrise refutes science every morning?
Sigrud stops. He sniffs twice, then looks toward one door on the right. Like most of the doors at the university, it is thick wood with a thick glass window in the center. Otherwise, it is bereft of markings.
“Is that Dr. Pangyui’s office?” asks Shara.
“Yes,” says Nidayin. “How did he—?”
“And has anyone besides the police been inside?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Still, Shara grimaces. The police, she knows, will be bad enough. “Nidayin, Pitry—I would like it if you would check all the offices and rooms in this chamber of the university. We need to know which other university staff might have been nearby, as well as the nature of their relationship to Dr. Pangyui.”
“Are you sure we should be taking up such an investigation?” asks Nidayin.
Shara gives him a look that is not quite cold: perhaps the cooler side of lukewarm.
“I mean, not to speak out of turn, but … you are only the interim CD,” he says.
“Yes,” says Shara. “I am.” She produces a small pink telegram slip and hands it to Nidayin. “And I am following orders from the polis governor, as you will see.”
Nidayin opens up the telegram, and reads:
C-AMB THIVANI PRELIM INVEST POLIS FORCES ASSIST STOP GHS512
“Oh,” says Nidayin.
“Strictly the preliminary investigation,” says Shara. “But we must take advantage of evidence while it is still fresh, or so I am told. Would I be wrong?”
“No,” says Nidayin. “No, you would not.”
He and Pitry begin their rounds, checking the adjacent offices. Within twenty feet they begin bickering again. That should keep them busy for a while, she thinks.
She tucks the telegram inside her coat. She knows she’ll probably need it again.
Naturally, Polis Governor Mulaghesh sent no such telegram, but it’s useful to have friends in every Comm Department, no matter what you’re up to.
“Now,” says Shara. “Let’s see what’s left.”
* * *
The office of Dr. Efrem Pangyui is a knee-high sea of torn paper, with his desk
“Really?” says Pitry.
“Yes,” says Shara. “But this is not the original university. The original was lost during the War.”
“After the Blink, you mean,” says Nidayin. “It vanished with most of Bulikov. Right?”
Shara ignores him. “The university has been rebuilt based on sketches and art made before the War. Bulikov was very insistent it be re-created exactly as it was: they tore down a great deal of the surviving ancient architecture so the university could be rebuilt with genuine ancient stone. They wanted it to be authentic—or at least,” she says, gently touching a gas lamp, “as authentic as one could make it while still allowing certain modern conveniences.”
“How do you know all that?” asks Pitry.
Shara adjusts her glasses. “What sort of classes do they teach here?”
“Erm, these days, mostly economics,” says Nidayin. “Commerce. Basic job training, as well. Chiefly because the polis has made a concerted effort to become a financial player in the world. Part of the New Bulikov movement, which has had a bit of backlash lately since some people are interpreting it as modernization. Which it is, really. There’re sporadic protests around the university campus, most of the time. Either about New Bulikov, or, well …”
“About Dr. Pangyui,” says Shara.
“Yes.”
“I suppose,” says Pitry as he absently examines the doors, “that they can’t teach history.”
“Not much, no,” says Nidayin. “What history they teach is strictly regulated, due to the WR. The Regulations sort of cripple everything they do here. And they have trouble teaching science and basic physics, since for so long things here didn’t function by basic physics. And in some places, they still don’t.”
Of course, thinks Shara. How do you teach people science when the local sunrise refutes science every morning?
Sigrud stops. He sniffs twice, then looks toward one door on the right. Like most of the doors at the university, it is thick wood with a thick glass window in the center. Otherwise, it is bereft of markings.
“Is that Dr. Pangyui’s office?” asks Shara.
“Yes,” says Nidayin. “How did he—?”
“And has anyone besides the police been inside?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Still, Shara grimaces. The police, she knows, will be bad enough. “Nidayin, Pitry—I would like it if you would check all the offices and rooms in this chamber of the university. We need to know which other university staff might have been nearby, as well as the nature of their relationship to Dr. Pangyui.”
“Are you sure we should be taking up such an investigation?” asks Nidayin.
Shara gives him a look that is not quite cold: perhaps the cooler side of lukewarm.
“I mean, not to speak out of turn, but … you are only the interim CD,” he says.
“Yes,” says Shara. “I am.” She produces a small pink telegram slip and hands it to Nidayin. “And I am following orders from the polis governor, as you will see.”
Nidayin opens up the telegram, and reads:
C-AMB THIVANI PRELIM INVEST POLIS FORCES ASSIST STOP GHS512
“Oh,” says Nidayin.
“Strictly the preliminary investigation,” says Shara. “But we must take advantage of evidence while it is still fresh, or so I am told. Would I be wrong?”
“No,” says Nidayin. “No, you would not.”
He and Pitry begin their rounds, checking the adjacent offices. Within twenty feet they begin bickering again. That should keep them busy for a while, she thinks.
She tucks the telegram inside her coat. She knows she’ll probably need it again.
Naturally, Polis Governor Mulaghesh sent no such telegram, but it’s useful to have friends in every Comm Department, no matter what you’re up to.
“Now,” says Shara. “Let’s see what’s left.”
* * *
The office of Dr. Efrem Pangyui is a knee-high sea of torn paper, with his desk
Similar Books
