 CHAPTER 8 (section 2) copyright © 2001, S. Y. Affolee “Thomson can’t be the only one who’s the expert on the Black Vipers, let alone the only one who’s ever heard of them,” reiterated Adrian as he parked his truck in the overcrowded parking structure in Ridgefield University. “Someone else might have some information, say, another historian or social scientist.” “Now don’t go all antsy on me. We’ll go see a professor as soon as possible,” Simone told him in a soothing voice reserved for little children about to throw a tantrum. “They aren’t that impossible to find. Besides, we have to find the student.” “Oh right, Randy Sykes, a.k.a. Therion. If we’re lucky, he’ll turn out to be one of those smart geeky kids.” “Why do you say that?” “Cause smart equals knowledge. More chance that we’ll find something of interest.” “Uh huh.” They strolled out of the parking structure and down a tree-lined walkway that meandered around several buildings that appeared to house lecture halls. The buildings on campus were predominantly white and Greek-like, obviously a sign of a Classical loving architect. “You do know where we’re going, don’t you?” “I’ve been here once,” he admitted. “For some seminar. But they had signs decked out all over the place, it was hard to miss it. Perhaps we should consult a campus map to find the dormitories?” “Like that one up there?” She pointed to the glassed bulletin board that stood in front of a building entitled with the wordy, Sherman Media Information Center. An oversimplified map with pastel boxes and circled numbers stared them in the face with the red dot pointing at one particularly dark purple box saying “You are here.” “Looks like the dormitories are on the north side of campus, just a little ways from the library.” “Lets just hope that we come across a student who knows who Sykes is.” Simone remarked. “And what’s the probability of that considering how large the student population is?” “Well, we’re bound to find someone. We can’t just go to the Housing Residence Office or something to ask, can we? They’ll think we’re stalkers or worse.” “It’s just that type of optimistic attitude that keeps me going.” She rolled her eyes. “All right then. You lead the way.” They took the path heading north, passing the Media Center and a small auditorium before walking past a circular food court that boasted many amenities, among them a cafe sporting black and white umbrellas, slick neo-modern metal benches and tables and a plethora of students with books, backpacks and the occassional laptop. A few curmudgeonly professors with coke-bottle glasses and contemptable sneers clustered at the far end of the court, sipping their mochas and muttering about more scholarly and lofty things. Past this, they finally found themselves along a walkway that zigzagged through a couple three and four story buildings that seemed a little tarnished from excessive wear and tear from living students. Strangely cut trees littered here and there in odd bobs that resembled more like alien fauna than any earth tree. “There must be some registry of where all the students are living,” said Adrian. “We could go into each house and ask.” Simone nodded. “Let’s start with that one. Wheeler House. As I recall, there were about ten student dormitories listed on the map.” The inside of Wheeler House appeared to be ripped off of a modern apartment complex with shiny window panes and matching tiles the color an intermediate between mauve and the sickly pink that hospital candy stripers wore. The foyer was empty except for a lonely pay phone and a few chairs next to the stairs leading to the rooms above. It eventually spilled over to a common room on the right where two coke machines stood like sentinels over a collection of rag tag couches and a battered coffee table. Several students were clustered together, evidently goggling at a photograph that they were passing around. “So you got this how?” asked a young man with a goatee, moustache, and mussed up hair. He squinted at the photograph. “Boy, Brenner looks totally fried.” The young black man with a towering afro grinned widely, holding up a polaroid camera. “Took that with this little baby. I think I’m gonna submit it to the yearbook committee.” A blonde girl in glasses, baggy overalls, and laptop glanced from behind the shoulder of goatee boy. “Hey Chris, what’s Brenner got in his hand?” “An electrophoresis gel box,” Chris the photographer explained. “In the Hardy Lab at ten a.m. this morning. Guess he didn’t get much sleep cause he got the wires crossed. See? The black wire is at the red outlet and vice versa. Got quite a shock. And I got a picture in before he noticed.” “Hey, let me see that.” A dark hair girl that had been lying on the couch sat up, dropping the hefty tomb of “War and Peace” on the floor. “Whoa. I think Brenner might win an Einstein look alike contest.” Adrian coughed discretely. The dark haired girl did not even look up. “The MacroSquare Seminar is actually a bit south of here. Just head on the walkway and it’s on your right in the Madison Auditorium. Can’t miss it.” “I’ll like to put my two cents in,” declared the blonde haired girl. “Tell the CEO of MacroSquare to shove his programs up the you know where. It’s awful.” She pointed to the laptop. “Crashed four times this week.” Goatee boy rolled his eyes. “Amy, I told you to reformat your hard drive and partition it. That way it won’t crash so often. And stop loading it up with memory grubbing software like paintshop pro and files like mp3’s.” “Shove it, Drew,” she replied. “It’s MacroSqaure’s fault.” Simone laughed. “We’re not here for the MacroSquare Seminar. We’re looking for a student.” “You are?” The dark haired girl perked up as she retrieved her copy of “War and Peace” from the floor. “Are you undercover cops or something? There’s going to be a drug sting isn’t there?” She snickered. “I just knew those weirdos in Racker House were up to no good.” “And let me guess, Gina, and the frat boys in Eberton House?” asked Chris rather sarcastically. Gina nodded. “Especially those frat boys in Eberton House. Have you ever wondered why they always looked so stoned on Monday? It’s not just the vodka, I grant you that.” “We’re actually private investigators,” said Simone. “Like Columbo on TV?” asked Drew. “What case are you working on?” She just smiled. “We’re looking for a student who may have some information that may be of use to us. His name is Randy Sykes. Heard of him?” “Randy Sykes?” the students repeated nearly simultaneously. They glanced at each other. “I suppose he has a reputation around here?” said Adrian dryly. “Yeah,” said Gina slowly. “He’s a graduate student in the history department.” “I can look him up for you,” said Drew helpfully as he hauled up a battered copy of the student directory from the coffee table. “I think he has an apartment nearby.” “He’s real slick,” added Amy. “Gets up real close and personal, you know? Especially green freshmen.” “I remember,” said Chris sitting back. “I was taking History 101 for an elective first year. Unlucky draw I guess that I was having a bit of a problem on one of the homeworks and decided to go to a teaching assistant’s office hours. Went to his, and well, practically got slobered on if you know what I mean.” “He...you...” said Gina surprised. “No way,” said Chris, disgusted. “I’m not that type of guy. Betty Jo and Granger were there with me. He slobbered over them too. Figured that he was into that kinky orgy stuff.” “Ew.” Amy wrinkled her nose. “I’m glad I’m a computer science nerd.” “There’s nothing wrong with kingy orgy stuff,” said Drew. Amy scooted a few inches away from him. “Unless it’s with Sykes,” he added. “I wear my special invisible glasses,” declared Gina. She whipped out a pair of sunglasses that had built in windshield wipers. “No slobber on me when I’m taking early eighteenth century European history.” “He’s a TA in that class too?” said Chris. “Boy, that guy really does try to get around.” “It also helps to sit in the back,” replied Gina. “And hide a little behind the seats. Sykes likes to sit up front where all the studious girls and boys are you know? And he likes staring at Professor Fitzgerald while she’s up there. You know how she starts bouncing when she gets all worked up about a lecture topic.” “Who’s Fitzgerald?” asked Amy. “A history professor who’s really into old European culture, especially those male oriented clubs, you know? I think she’s a radical feminist except she had a serious lapse in judgement when she got the surgery.” “So you think they’re fake?” said Chris. “I think so anyway. Why else would they bounce like that while she’s just standing there?” “This Professor Fitzgerald, she’s an expert on European cults, then?” asked Adrian. “Well, I guess you could say that.” “And we’ll find Randy Sykes there,” added Simone. “He’s there most of the time,” Gina nodded. She looked at her watch. “Lecture for that class starts in about half an hour. I could take you there if you’d like.” |