maybe you’re right. Well, Vodkaville has had funding problems. They don’t have the dough to watch everyone. Hand me that wrench, will ya’?”
Paul searched around the floor before bending over and retrieving the wrench closest to his feet. As he handed it to Lewis he glanced around the garage.
“Not the cleanest place to plan a revolution,” he mused aloud.
Lewis grunted at an especially tough engine bolt. “Yeah, well, we’re off the beaten track here. What office building around town isn’t bugged? Any outdoor meetings are sure to draw attention and I don’t exactly fancy freezing my ass off half the year. You know the problem with public places, you never know who’s in the next booth. Besides, I really want to get this Superbird on the road. Can’t let Wolfe beat me on this.”
Lewis inserted an eight-track tape into a player on a nearby metal shelf and cranked up the volume. Paul winced at being forced to listen yet again to Steppenwolf.
“So, what’s the next move?” Lewis asked. “Gimme’ that ratchet set.”
“Next move is we pinpoint a time to go back.”
“Got one in mind?”
Paul shook his head. “Not really. We need someone who knows a lot of the details. Someone who has access to the real stuff, the history, the primary sources. We can’t afford to hit the wrong time.”
“Like a professor,” Lewis said. “Watch your feet.” Paul lifted his feet and Lewis rolled under the car to work on a brake line. “Ratchet,” he called out, extending his hand.
Paul handed him the ratchet set. “Know anyone?”
“Maybe,” Lewis said. “There’s a new associate professor of 20 th Century American who joined the faculty this month. Published extensively on the Kennedys and Lindsay, and from what I’ve heard through my contacts, spouts off anti-Soviet.”
“Who doesn’t?” Paul asked, taking some greasy piece of metal from Lewis and placing it on the workbench beside him. “That establishes his I.Q. at 80-plus. What’s his name?”
“Her’s. Nigel said he was thinking of asking her out, evidently she’s a decent little number. Her name’s Hatch, I think. Amanda Hatch.”
Paul kicked over Lewis’ beer.
“Hey, what the hell, man?” Lewis asked as beer trickled under his coaster.
“You…Amanda Hutch?”
“Hutch, that’s it, yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Oh nothing,” Paul exhaled. “She and I went out in grad school is all. At Cornell. She’s at MIT now?”
Lewis rolled out and sat up, grinning. “And Nigel’s asking her out? She’s probably desperate for a real man, Paul.”
“I have got to start reading those faculty circulars.”
“How well do you know her? Not in the Biblical sense, I mean.”
Paul shook his head. “She’s anti-Sov, that’s for sure. Or at least she was. And she was the top student in her department, she knows her stuff.”
Lewis reached over and turned the tape player up. “If she’s at MIT she knows her stuff. Could you work with her?”
“I don’t…I could ask her.”
“Over drinks?”
Paul shook his head. “I’m a happily married man, Lewis.”
Lewis looked at Paul. “Correction. You’re a married man.” He lay back down and rolled under the car again. “You ought to get out a bit more often, Paul. Rattle Valerie’s cage some. Be up to something with a hot history prof. Maybe she’ll notice and realize it’s worth her time to treat you a little better.”
“It would hurt Grace too much,” Paul said quietly. “She’d pick up on it. But you could ask her out. Take one for the team.”
Amanda Hutch.
Lewis sighed. “I don’t believe in mixing work and pleasure like that. Besides, she’s Ivy League, right?”
“We were at Cornell together, yeah. So?”
“So let’s just say the only blacks she probably interacted with growing up were wearing coveralls. Call me paranoid, but that’s my experience. Ain’t nobody alive more afraid of and more patronizing to successful blacks than liberal Ivy League white girls.”
“Maybe she’d
Paul searched around the floor before bending over and retrieving the wrench closest to his feet. As he handed it to Lewis he glanced around the garage.
“Not the cleanest place to plan a revolution,” he mused aloud.
Lewis grunted at an especially tough engine bolt. “Yeah, well, we’re off the beaten track here. What office building around town isn’t bugged? Any outdoor meetings are sure to draw attention and I don’t exactly fancy freezing my ass off half the year. You know the problem with public places, you never know who’s in the next booth. Besides, I really want to get this Superbird on the road. Can’t let Wolfe beat me on this.”
Lewis inserted an eight-track tape into a player on a nearby metal shelf and cranked up the volume. Paul winced at being forced to listen yet again to Steppenwolf.
“So, what’s the next move?” Lewis asked. “Gimme’ that ratchet set.”
“Next move is we pinpoint a time to go back.”
“Got one in mind?”
Paul shook his head. “Not really. We need someone who knows a lot of the details. Someone who has access to the real stuff, the history, the primary sources. We can’t afford to hit the wrong time.”
“Like a professor,” Lewis said. “Watch your feet.” Paul lifted his feet and Lewis rolled under the car to work on a brake line. “Ratchet,” he called out, extending his hand.
Paul handed him the ratchet set. “Know anyone?”
“Maybe,” Lewis said. “There’s a new associate professor of 20 th Century American who joined the faculty this month. Published extensively on the Kennedys and Lindsay, and from what I’ve heard through my contacts, spouts off anti-Soviet.”
“Who doesn’t?” Paul asked, taking some greasy piece of metal from Lewis and placing it on the workbench beside him. “That establishes his I.Q. at 80-plus. What’s his name?”
“Her’s. Nigel said he was thinking of asking her out, evidently she’s a decent little number. Her name’s Hatch, I think. Amanda Hatch.”
Paul kicked over Lewis’ beer.
“Hey, what the hell, man?” Lewis asked as beer trickled under his coaster.
“You…Amanda Hutch?”
“Hutch, that’s it, yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Oh nothing,” Paul exhaled. “She and I went out in grad school is all. At Cornell. She’s at MIT now?”
Lewis rolled out and sat up, grinning. “And Nigel’s asking her out? She’s probably desperate for a real man, Paul.”
“I have got to start reading those faculty circulars.”
“How well do you know her? Not in the Biblical sense, I mean.”
Paul shook his head. “She’s anti-Sov, that’s for sure. Or at least she was. And she was the top student in her department, she knows her stuff.”
Lewis reached over and turned the tape player up. “If she’s at MIT she knows her stuff. Could you work with her?”
“I don’t…I could ask her.”
“Over drinks?”
Paul shook his head. “I’m a happily married man, Lewis.”
Lewis looked at Paul. “Correction. You’re a married man.” He lay back down and rolled under the car again. “You ought to get out a bit more often, Paul. Rattle Valerie’s cage some. Be up to something with a hot history prof. Maybe she’ll notice and realize it’s worth her time to treat you a little better.”
“It would hurt Grace too much,” Paul said quietly. “She’d pick up on it. But you could ask her out. Take one for the team.”
Amanda Hutch.
Lewis sighed. “I don’t believe in mixing work and pleasure like that. Besides, she’s Ivy League, right?”
“We were at Cornell together, yeah. So?”
“So let’s just say the only blacks she probably interacted with growing up were wearing coveralls. Call me paranoid, but that’s my experience. Ain’t nobody alive more afraid of and more patronizing to successful blacks than liberal Ivy League white girls.”
“Maybe she’d
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