Cairo.”
Studying the letter, Jason Dill murmured, “Here’s someone who Barris didn’t manage to get to. At least not in time.”
Larson said, “It’s a woman’s writing. Done with an ancient style of ball-point pen. They’re trying to trace the make of pen. What you have there is actually a copy of the letter; they’re still examining the actual document down in the labs. But for your purposes—”
“What are my purposes?” Dill said, half to himself. The letter was interesting, but not unique; he had seen such accusations made toward other officials in the Unity organization.
To whom it may concern:
This is to notify you that William Barris, who is a Director, cannot be trusted, as he is in the pay of the Healers and
has been for some time. A death that occurred recently can
be laid at Mr. Barris’ door, and he should be punished for
his crime of seeing to it that an innocent and talented Unity
servant was viciously murdered.
“Notice that the writing slopes down,” Larson said. “That’s supposed to be an indication that the writer is mentally disturbed.”
“Superstition,” Dill said. “I wonder if this is referring to the murder of that fieldworker, Pitt. That’s the most recent. What connection does Barris have with that? Was he Pitt’s Director? Did he send him out?”
“I’ll get all the facts for you, sir?” Larson said briskly.
After he had reread the unsigned letter, Jason Dill tossed it aside and again picked up the DQ form from Director Barris. With his pen he scratched a few lines on the bottom of the form. “Return this to him toward the end of the week. He failed to fill in his identification numbers; I’m returning it to be corrected.”
Larson frowned. “That won’t delay him much. Barris will immediately return the form correctly prepared.”
Wearily, Jason Dill said, “That’s my problem. You let me worry about it. Tend to your own business and you’ll last a lot longer in this organization. That’s a lesson you should have learned a long time ago.”
Flushing, Larson muttered, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I think we should start a discreet investigation of Director Barris,” Dill said. “Better send in one of the police secretaries; I’ll dictate instructions.”
While Larson rounded up the police secretary, Jason Dill sat gazing dully at the unsigned letter that accused Director Barris of being in the pay of the Healers. It would be interesting to know who wrote this, he thought to himself. Maybe we will know, someday soon.
In any case, there will be an investigation—of William Barris.
After the evening meal, Mrs. Agnes Parker sat in the school restaurant with two other teachers, exchanging gossip and relaxing after the long, tense day.
Leaning over so that no one passing by could hear, Miss Crowley whispered to Mrs. Parker, “Aren’t you finished with that book, yet? If I had known it would take you so long, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you read it first.” Her plump, florid face trembled with indignation. “We really deserve our turn.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dawes said, also leaning to join them. “I wish you’d go get it right now. Please let us have it, won’t you?”
They argued, and at last Mrs. Parker reluctantly rose to her feet and moved away from the table, toward the stairway. It was a long walk up the stairs and along the hall to the wing of the building in which she had her own room, and once in the room she had to spend some time digging the book from its hiding place. The book, an ancient literary classic called
Lolita,
had been on the banned list for years; there was a heavy fine for anyone caught possessing it—and, for a teacher, it might mean a jail term. However, most of the teachers read and circulated such stimulating books back and forth among them, and so far no one had been caught.
Grumbling because she had not been able to finish the book, Mrs. Parker placed it inside a copy of
World Today
and carried it from her
Studying the letter, Jason Dill murmured, “Here’s someone who Barris didn’t manage to get to. At least not in time.”
Larson said, “It’s a woman’s writing. Done with an ancient style of ball-point pen. They’re trying to trace the make of pen. What you have there is actually a copy of the letter; they’re still examining the actual document down in the labs. But for your purposes—”
“What are my purposes?” Dill said, half to himself. The letter was interesting, but not unique; he had seen such accusations made toward other officials in the Unity organization.
To whom it may concern:
This is to notify you that William Barris, who is a Director, cannot be trusted, as he is in the pay of the Healers and
has been for some time. A death that occurred recently can
be laid at Mr. Barris’ door, and he should be punished for
his crime of seeing to it that an innocent and talented Unity
servant was viciously murdered.
“Notice that the writing slopes down,” Larson said. “That’s supposed to be an indication that the writer is mentally disturbed.”
“Superstition,” Dill said. “I wonder if this is referring to the murder of that fieldworker, Pitt. That’s the most recent. What connection does Barris have with that? Was he Pitt’s Director? Did he send him out?”
“I’ll get all the facts for you, sir?” Larson said briskly.
After he had reread the unsigned letter, Jason Dill tossed it aside and again picked up the DQ form from Director Barris. With his pen he scratched a few lines on the bottom of the form. “Return this to him toward the end of the week. He failed to fill in his identification numbers; I’m returning it to be corrected.”
Larson frowned. “That won’t delay him much. Barris will immediately return the form correctly prepared.”
Wearily, Jason Dill said, “That’s my problem. You let me worry about it. Tend to your own business and you’ll last a lot longer in this organization. That’s a lesson you should have learned a long time ago.”
Flushing, Larson muttered, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I think we should start a discreet investigation of Director Barris,” Dill said. “Better send in one of the police secretaries; I’ll dictate instructions.”
While Larson rounded up the police secretary, Jason Dill sat gazing dully at the unsigned letter that accused Director Barris of being in the pay of the Healers. It would be interesting to know who wrote this, he thought to himself. Maybe we will know, someday soon.
In any case, there will be an investigation—of William Barris.
After the evening meal, Mrs. Agnes Parker sat in the school restaurant with two other teachers, exchanging gossip and relaxing after the long, tense day.
Leaning over so that no one passing by could hear, Miss Crowley whispered to Mrs. Parker, “Aren’t you finished with that book, yet? If I had known it would take you so long, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you read it first.” Her plump, florid face trembled with indignation. “We really deserve our turn.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dawes said, also leaning to join them. “I wish you’d go get it right now. Please let us have it, won’t you?”
They argued, and at last Mrs. Parker reluctantly rose to her feet and moved away from the table, toward the stairway. It was a long walk up the stairs and along the hall to the wing of the building in which she had her own room, and once in the room she had to spend some time digging the book from its hiding place. The book, an ancient literary classic called
Lolita,
had been on the banned list for years; there was a heavy fine for anyone caught possessing it—and, for a teacher, it might mean a jail term. However, most of the teachers read and circulated such stimulating books back and forth among them, and so far no one had been caught.
Grumbling because she had not been able to finish the book, Mrs. Parker placed it inside a copy of
World Today
and carried it from her
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