The Far Time Incident by Neve Maslakovic

like you to accompany campus security if they request additional interviews with our staff. We should extend them our full cooperation, of course, but I don’t like them wandering around the buildings, asking unnecessary questions. I understand the difficulty, since there’s no body and all…but this was just an unfortunate accident, after all. We’re all very shaken by what happened.” He added pensively, “It falls to me to think about what’s best for the school.”
    I understood what he meant. Donations. We were in the middle of the end-of-the-calendar-year push. Alumni had a standing invitation to drop in on any departments and labs to look around and see what their old school was up to these days. We did not want anyone to be scared away by the sight of Campus Security Chief Kirkland and Officer Van Underberg roaming the halls. If I accompanied them, I’d be able to reassure everyone that the school had things under control.
    To an outsider, Dean Sunder’s concern about alumni contributions at a time like this might seem crass, but in fact it was the opposite—where fundraising was concerned, the dean had always tried to take as much as he could off the shoulders of theresearchers in the science departments and onto his own. His efforts fell into two categories: tapping government grants, which usually favored safe, baby-steps research projects; and targeting alumni, private patrons, and foundations, who were more willing to take on risky research projects like STEWie. Ewan Coffey’s donations to the school had been instrumental in getting STEWie up and running. The actor had been following the project’s results with keen interest—and with the satisfaction, I thought, of a gambler who had backed the right horse. (After his morning meeting with the dean, Ewan had returned to his movie set; the actor was back in Minnesota for the shooting of what rumor had it was the thrilling tale of a cabin-vacationing lawyer battling an angry Bigfoot in a blizzard, all while trying to win the heart of his somewhat younger but equally attractive next-door neighbor. It would no doubt do as well as all his other flicks.)
    Dean Sunder glanced behind him with that last sentence, as if there might be potential donors wandering around the 120-year-old halls of the Hypatia of Alexandria House at this late hour, or a few of Xavier Mooney’s molecules floating down the dimly lit hallway that his corporeal form had graced many times over the years. The dean turned back with a small shudder. “We really need more indoor lighting in here. It gets dark so early in the winter. See if you can get Maintenance to install a few more ceiling lights, Julia.”
    “Lewis, you knew Xavier better than I did—did he have any family other than Helen Presnik?” I asked, immediately regretting my choice of words. I wasn’t sure I looked upon Quinn as family anymore and I had no idea what Helen’s opinions on the matter might be; ex-spouses were a gray area family-wise, their status to be determined on a case-by-case basis.
    “I think there’s a sister. Mary and I met her at Xavier and Helen’s wedding.”
    “I’ll see if Helen has her address. Helen didn’t know of any particular wishes he might have had regarding a memorial service. I’ll schedule the Great Hall in the Coffey Library for Friday evening, like we discussed. I called Ingrid, hoping she’d be able to put together a light buffet at short notice. She said it would be no problem.”
    Ingrid was one of the linchpin personalities in town, always ready to take up a cause when someone needed help or to drop by with a stack of Swedish pancakes with lingonberry jam from her restaurant when a family was in trouble.
    “I suppose we should have flowers?” the dean said.
    “Sven’s Shop can provide them.”
    “And some kind of music, do you think?”
    “The Music Department offered to send over students to play something lively on Dr. Mooney’s collection of historical musical