For 'tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petard; and 't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon….

Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 4

Chapter 1

The remains of a festive dinner had just been cleared away, and nothing was left except several decanters of sherry and Napoleon brandy, both of which had made a complete circuit of the table before the host rose, glass in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the rich baritone rang out, echoing from the raftered ceiling to the farthest reaches of the baronial hall, “It’s a pleasure to raise my glass to a renowned Shakespearean scholar, a wise and popular teacher crowned with the highest academic laurels at my favorite center of higher learning, and, if my crystal ball is still in working order, its next president.”

"President Spyglass," came the muted echo above and below the salt, for Everett FitzRoger Contumely, like many of his fellow magnates, liked to surround himself with yes-men. Professor Ezra Spyglass, Dean of Humanities at Hebrides College, smiled and nodded genially at the salutation. Though he was a man of no more than middling personal means, his office had accustomed him to rub shoulders with the very rich and the experience had schooled him to exhibit poise and aplomb at the rarefied heights in which they moved. Dean Spyglass was very comfortable in the evening dress tailored precisely to his diminutive frame and paid for out of Heb's operational budget.

As a senior administrator of the college and a member of its governing council's three-man steering committee, he had been a natural choice to head the fund-raising campaign for the construction of the new incunabula wing of the Sprengel Central Library. His friend and patron, Everett ontumely, head of Contumely Associates Investment Bank, had, just prior to his gracious toast, written a six-digit check that gave the fund a much needed boost.

The dean's wife, Ariadne Previn-Thierry Spyglass, squeezed his knee conspiratorially, confident that the intimate gesture was curtained by the tablecloth that fell to their shins. Dr. Previn, as she was listed on the college's books to distinguish her from her eminent husband, wore pearls over a low-cut gown that had been let out in the middle to accommodate an abdomen swelling with a six-month pregnancy.

A noted authority on European manuscripts predating the Gutenberg revolution, she was the director-designate of the new Contumely Wing. As such, she had accompanied her husband on the most important of his money-gathering jaunts for the library.

"That crystal ball takes its orders from the boss," Ariadne whispered into his ear. Spyglass managed an almost imperceptible wink to indicate his agreement. Nevertheless, now was the time for a modest demurral. He half-rose in response.

"No, no, Everett," he protested, "You can't drink that toast. Our incumbent president, Sylvester K. Grimes, still has more than half a year until his retirement."

"Indulge me, Ez," the great man boomed jovially, "As chairman of the Heb board of governors, I think I know who has the inside track as Syl's successor. And when you go home with this little piece of change in your pocket," he waved a sky-blue rectangle of paper, "The powers that be on campus will know who's the breadwinner and deserves to be big daddy."

A fat, balding individual at mid-table also rose and flourished a check of his own. This was Theodore Shaigs, present comptroller of the Wall Street investment banking empire which the first in a long line of Contumelies had established at the turn of the century.

"Ev, Dean and your lovely, learned lady, fellow Contumely directors, I take great pleasure in matching Mr. Contumely's personal contribution with a donation from the Contumely Foundation, of which I have the honor to be general-secretary. Together, they total more than one and a half a million dollars, and will put the Contumely Incunabula Wing budget over the top."

Enthusiastic applause greeted this announcement. In his own turn, Spyglass rose to his feet and held his wine glass, full to the brim, up high.

"Dear friends of Hebrides College," he said in ringing tones, "Words fail me in the face of your generosity. All I can say is, here's to Everett Contumely, the Contumely Foundation, and the Contumely Incunabula Wing. We hope to break ground in two weeks, and you're all invited."

"I'll certainly drink to that," Contumely said and, matching action to words, brought the brandy snifter to his lips and upended it. A murmur of approval ran down the table as all present followed his example. Contumely remained standing as the other diners took their seats. He was about to launch into one of his famous after-dinner speeches when the butler glided to his side and whispered a few words into his ear. Not by a flicker of an eyelid did the master of Contumely Hall betray any emotion as he craved his guests' indulgence for a few minutes' absence.

"A minor matter of business," he apologized, "Please keep the good cheer flowing. I'll be back before you know it."

As Contumely strode away and disappeared up the curving staircase, Spyglass detained the departing butler and asked to be directed to the closest comfort station. Having received discreet instructions, he too bounded up the stairs and found the room he was seeking, an enormous and ornate chamber with a floor of inlaid mosaics depicting nymphs and satyrs from Greek mythology disporting themselves in a leafy glade.

After completing his business, he made his way back to the staircase. He must have taken a wrong turning at a branch in the corridor, for he found himself in unfamiliar territory and backtracked to regain the correct fork. Padding down the thickly carpeted hallway, he passed a door slightly ajar. Voices issued from the narrow opening. One of them was Contumely's.

"No, no, no, what you ask is impossible. Tell your boss there's nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing. I sold short myself, even more than he did, and in a month's time we'll both be ten times richer."

A hoarse, gravelly voice, though very low pitched, replied. The man's speech was largely unintelligible. Spyglass could make out perhaps one word in five.

"...him... very... not good... careful... dangerous."

A chill went down Spyglass's spine and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. There was something definitely ominous about that unfamiliar voice. He moved on quickly, ashamed to have eavesdropped and dubious, for the first time in many weeks, about the source of that much-needed subsidy for Ariadne's new domain.

---

On the flight back to Paxville, Spyglass was unusually pensive and taciturn, so much so that Ariadne felt it necessary to cajole him out of his dark mood.

"A penny," she said at last, pinching him gently on the upper arm. This was their private signal to initiate intimacy, whether of the flesh or the mind. Spyglass gave her a pallid smile.

"For the old Guy?" he asked with wooden humor. "A penny for the old Guy" was a slogan of the British holiday, Guy Fawkes Day, a phrase he had picked up on his last sabbatical at All Souls College in Cambridge University. The ironic implications of the words, which commemorated the unsuccessful attempt of Guy Fawkes to blow up parliament in 1605, were to haunt him in the not-too-distant future.

She leaned over and nipped his earlobe between thumb and forefinger.

"Your thoughts, m'sieur," she corrected. Ariadne was of French extraction and often laced a very fluent English with her mother tongue. Her paternal grandparents had been "pieds noirs" in Algeria, European colonists in this last prefecture of France, and had immigrated to the US several years after returning to the mother country when its North African dependency had achieved independence.

"They're hardly worth that much money," he told her, "But I won't hide them from you, sweeting."

He made a clean breast, then, about his reservations regarding the money with which Everett Contumely had showered him that evening, of the conversation he had overheard between their host and a very disreputable-sounding character, the rumors that had reached his ears telling of dubious if not shady practices at the highest levels of Contumely Associates. Ariadne, like the true Frenchwoman she was, took a very practical view of the matter.

"Surely Contumely's personal check is above suspicion," she said.

"No doubt about it," he agreed.

"And the funds from the Contumely Foundation are not tainted?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Then let us rest content with the Emperor Hadrian's bon mot: 'pecunia non olet'.

"That's the trouble," he sighed, "I'm not taxing the use of public toilets, the money from which, as you say, did not stink. But if Contumely ever comes to grief because of financial malfeasance, the name of your incunabula wing will offend nostrils from here to Washington and points west."

"Ca m'est egal," she huffed, "I don't really care, as long as my beloved incunabula gain a permanent home."

"That's all very well for you," he replied peevishly, "But can I really afford to have my name linked with his if he's heading for a scandal?"

"Oh, poof!" she said with a Gallic shrug, "That's all you think about lately, your public image. What's happened to you over the past year, mon petit chou? You never used to be such a politician."

It was his turn to shrug, a mannerism he had picked up from her.

"What can I tell you, cherie? It's a kind of fever that attacks the centers of higher thought. Don't you find the prospect of becoming Madame la Presidente of Hebrides College too charming to resist?"

She snuggled close to him.

"I'm quite satisfied to be Madame la Decane."

---

Spyglass's return to Heb was greeted with all the enthusiasm the citizens of ancient Rome once accorded the triumphal entry of a victorious general. After four hours of sleep following his arrival back to Paxville, he addressed a plenary session of the college senate and modestly reported on his success in harvesting over a megabuck from the ripening crop of the Contumely millions. A thunderous standing ovation was the gathering's exclamation point to the gratifying message he delivered, and many were the hands extended to shake his and pat him on the back as his colleagues milled around him.

"Well done, Ezra!"

"You've got my vote, buddy."

"Attaboy!"

"Viva Spyglass!"

Not all, however, was sweetness and light. Spyglass detected some sour looks sent his way. There was a party opposed to his accession to the throne and its adherents constituted about a third of the senate. Much of the opposition was due to jealousy, some to professional rivalry, and the rest to just plain cussedness. These backed Lester P. Giralamo, head of the political science department and a former lieutenant-governor of the state. Professor Girolamo was the third member of the steering committee troika and, as a seasoned politician, he was no pushover in the race to fill the presidential vacancy when Grimes retired.

Grimes was all affability when Spyglass entered his office following the address to the senate. Girolamo, a thickset, redfaced man in his early sixties, was already sprawling in the overstuffed leather chair he always appropriated for his own use when visiting with the president of Hebrides College. The latter came around his desk and placed a fatherly arm around Spyglass's shoulder.

"Hail the conquering hero!" he said with a congratulatory grin, leading Spyglass to the oxblood leather sofa at the edge of an expensive Turkey carpet. Girolamo offered a languid handshake as Grimes's secretary entered with a tray of coffee cups and pastry.

"So, your efforts have born fruit, friend Spy," Girolamo wheezed as he lit a cigar, certainly not his first of the day, for he was as addicted to strong stogies as Spyglass was averse to them.

"I suppose so," Spyglass replied with modest reticence.

"'Suppose' rubbish!" Grimes boomed. "See here, my boy, I won't have you hiding your light under a bushel. You deserve a reward, and you shall have it, by the rood."

Though his Ph.D was in mechanical engineering and not Renaissance studies, Prof. Grimes was much given to these strange, sixteenth-century oaths.

"Here here!" muttered Girolamo, blowing out a cloud of pungent smoke.

"I really don't want a reward, Syl," Spyglass demurred. "It'll be enough for me to watch the new incunabula wing start to take shape."

"Well, we insist," Grimes overrode him. "A promotion and a raise in salary."

"How can I be promoted higher than a deanship?" Spyglass wanted to know.

"There's always the chancellorship," Girolamo reminded him with a wink.

"Why, the post's a dead letter," Spyglass exclaimed. "Hasn't been filled in more than two decades."

"Doesn't mean it can't be revived," Grimes said. "You'll be an ornament to the position, Ezra. Chancellor Spyglass. Has a grand ring to it."

"Indeed it does," Girolamo agreed. He beamed at the younger man.

Suspicion awakened a long dormant memory. "Correct me if I'm wrong, gentlemen, but isn't the chancellor the only official barred from succeeding an outgoing president, according to our charter?"

"Well, what of it?" Girolamo demanded. "You're still a very young man, Ezra. Thirty-two, thirty-three?"

"Thirty-four, not that my age is relevant to anything."

"I'm thirty years older, and a seasoned administrator. Be patient, Ezra, your time will come."

Spyglass rose and dusted off his pants.

"Yes, Lester," he said, preparing to take his leave, "My time will come, but not when you decide. When the Hebrides College senate decides."

---

A much regretted penalty of Spyglass's climb to the top echelons of Hebrides College was the necessary relegation of most teaching duties to junior or otherwise unburdened colleagues. He very much enjoyed the daily encounter with young, enquiring minds, the intellectual give and take that put him on his mettle, that tested his scholarship and knowledge. Ah, there was nothing like the clash of ideas that only the vigor and irreverence of youth could offer.

He really missed the classroom experience, and handling a fortnightly seminar on selected plays of Ben Jonson for upperclassmen did not really satisfy that hunger. But what could he do? Running the faculty of humanities was job enough for two men without the added workload of preparing lectures and correcting papers. What was more, he took little joy in his administrative responsibilities, which often required a more calloused personality than his.

The afternoon following his address to the college senate and the session with President Grimes and Les Girolamo promised to be a particularly stressful one. He had four appointments scheduled and would have given much for an excuse to take the rest of the day off and avoid them.

The first was set for two pm and, as the classroom gong sounded throughout the precincts of Shelby Hall, Heb's administration complex, a young woman with hair almost as gingery as his own was shown into his office. He rose formally as she approached and they shook hands across the top of his desk. She took the chair opposite his own and crossed her legs primly. An expectant smile lit up her elfin features.

"I was so glad to get your letter, Dean Spyglass. I'm really looking forward to being part of the Introduction to Western Philosophy team at Heb."

"Well, Dr. Grimaldi," he began, but she broke in with ingenuous impulsiveness:

"Susan, please."

"As I was about to say, Dr. Grimaldi," he went on, biting the inside of his lower lip to steel himself against the softness of heart that threatened to unman him, "The letter of appointment we sent you seems to have been somewhat premature."

"I... I don't understand," she faltered. Her smile trembled and vanished. Spyglass felt like the cruelest brute alive.

"We've been informed about some..." he groped for a word with the least tincture of venom on its barbs... "Some irregularity regarding your dissertation. This information became available only yesterday, not in time to cancel today's appointment, and I deeply regret the necessity of reversing our decision so abruptly, but there's nothing we can do until the situation is cleared up."

"'Irregularity? Reversing your decision?' What are you talking about, Dean Spyglass?"

From the tremolo of her voice, Spyglass knew that she knew.

"I'm sorry you're forcing the issue, Dr. Grimaldi. The long and short of it is that your dissertation is being challenged by someone on your doctoral committee on grounds of plagiarism, and until those charges are withdrawn or disproved Hebrides College is forced to rescind its offer of employment on the academic staff. I regret this more than I can say. The moment your dissertation is cleared of all suspicion, please let me know and we'll reconsider."

Tears running unchecked down her cheeks, the poor girl lurched to the door and made her exit. God, he hated this job! Oh, for the Olympus of the president's office, where the laurelled chief passed the time in nothing more painful than exchanges of email with worshipful alumni.

Next on his list was Wilfred Dargoon, a black youngster of awesome intellect and titanic rage. Dargoon was a scholarship student with honors in African history. A fiery temper and marked propensity for violence, however, were the kid's worst enemies. During a classroom dispute about the level of civilization attained by ancient Zimbabwe, he had smacked the face of his instructor. A disciplinary committee had sentenced him to suspension for the rest of the year and perpetual revocation of his scholarship. Spyglass had reviewed the decision and approved it. Now, here was the Dargoon boy, pleading for another chance.

"Look here, Dean, I'm truly remorseful," he insisted.

"You were truly remorseful last year, Wilfred," Spyglass reminded him, "When you spat at a classmate. You were reprimanded and warned then."

"But don't you need three strikes to be out?"

"This isn't baseball, Wilfred," Spyglass said, tapping an earpiece of his glasses on the desk top to emphasize the point.

"Don't patronize me, Spyglass," the boy rasped, "Call me Mr. Dargoon, if you have to address me by name."

"Nobody's patronizing you, Mr. Dargoon. And kindly be respectful to your elders."

"I really am sorry, Dr. Spyglass. Please give me another chance."

"Sorry, Mr. Dargoon, the best I can do is reconsider the revocation of your scholarship."

He watched with apprehension as the kid clenched his fists.

"You owe me, ofay," he growled.

"I strongly suggest you take a course in anger management, Mr. Dargoon," Spyglass said softly. "And now, I'm afraid you'll have to leave, before one or both of us says something that can't be recalled."

The seething young fellow fixed him with a look of murderous fury, his fists opening and closing spasmodically. Spyglass returned the look with what he hoped was unflinching fearlessness. It was Dargoon who, at last, dropped his eyes and got to his feet.

"You'll be sorry, whitey," he warned and slammed the door.

Spyglass swallowed two aspirin and made ready for his third interview, a junior lecturer who had to be terminated as a result of poor grades in the instructor evaluation reports of his students. The unfortunate fellow was very woebegone and Spyglass sympathized, but there was nothing he could do. The young postdoc had been hired on probation, one of the conditions of which was that he meet the minimum requirements of student approval. Though he had performed this sad duty many times, Spyglass still found the process a painful one.

The last encounter of the afternoon was with Hubbard Gonfalconer, head of cataloguing in the central library. Gonfalconer's nose was out of joint at having been passed over for consideration as a possible candidate for the directorate of the library's new Contumely incunabula wing. Word had reached Spyglass that the man was accusing him of nepotism and it was at his invitation that the aging librarian was now here.

"What's this I hear, Hub? They tell me you're complaining that I pulled strings to have Ariadne appointed the new director of the wing."

"You heard right, Dean. And I have grounds for complaint. I outrank your wife by tons of seniority. You could at least have interviewed me for the job."

"I had nothing to do with it, my dear sir," Spyglass protested, "When Ariadne's name came up for consideration, I recused myself from the committee evaluating the candidates. Her appointment was approved by a full plenum of the senate. It was merit and merit alone that decided the issue."

Gonfalconer mumbled something inaudible.

"How's that?" Spyglass demanded.

"I said the day will come when you regret this, Spyglass."

To punctuate the statement, he slammed the top of the desk with the palm of his hand, then stormed from the room. Spyglass sighed and slumped in his chair. He had never dreamed that he had such a propensity for making enemies.

---

It was now a little after five and Spyglass's headache, though no longer splitting, still held on tenaciously. What he needed was a breath of fresh air and a spell of peace and quiet to let his poor frazzled nerves settle. There was no rest for the weary, however. Instead of packing up for the day and going home after the hardest afternoon he could remember, there was still half an hour to kill before a videotaped interview for a PBS broadcast that would be aired later that week. A short stroll around the campus would not be amiss, he decided. The weather was fine, the days were growing longer, and a whiff of the springtime verdure would do him good.

The balmy air of May still countered the chilly breeze of evening and the clipped lawns of Heb's campus provided a comfortable, grassy bed for scores of undergraduates who lounged at their ease in couples and threesomes, scanning books and notes in preparation for final exams or simply relaxing and chatting idly. Under a stand of old elms, a clutch of bare-chested athletes were passing footballs back and forth, the pigskins arcing and spiraling lazily in the slanting, dappled sunlight.

Spotting the popular, redheaded dean, one brawny would-be quarterback lobbed a slow and easy pass his way. Somewhat startled, Spyglass backtracked and caught it over his shoulder, then pretended to run with it into an end zone. A ragged cheer and a few whistles rose from the onlookers to compliment him on the successful reception and touchdown. Spyglass bowed and returned the ball, suppressing a groan of dismay as it wobbled short.

A leggy young girl in shorts and pinned up braids ran up to him as he continued on his way, a photo delicately pinched at one end between her thumb and forefinger.

"Dean Spyglass," she called, blushing prettily, "Would you like a snapshot of yourself catching the ball?"

She had snapped him with an old Polaroid camera. Now she peeled the backing off the celluloid. Whether by luck or skill, she had taken an excellent picture. There was Spyglass, his body twisted obliquely like a running back evading an interceptor, his arms outstretched to pull in the ball.

"Why, that's marvelous," he congratulated her. "Can I keep it?"

"Sure thing, sir. Maybe you can use it in your presidential campaign."

"Let's see," he said deadpan, going along with her joke, "What would be the best slogan for this poster? How about 'Spyglass outruns the opposition'?"

She pretended to consider this, then went him one better.

"Let President Spyglass carry the ball."

They shared a good laugh at this sally. Spyglass pocketed the now-dry print and, raising his open palm in benediction to the girl and football players, retraced his steps to Shelby Hall.

A TV camera and lights had already been set up in the senior staff common room. Spyglass took his seat at the head of the table. A makeup girl ran pads and brushes over his face and combed his hair. A well groomed young woman in a charcoal gray business suit came over and introduced herself.

"I'm Wendy Solomon, an assistant of Mr. Sayyid," she said.

Reggie Sayyid was the anchor and chief editor of the PBS evening news program, "The World with Reggie Sayyid".

Spyglass said that he was pleased to meet her, and that was no lie. He was always pleased to meet attractive young women in their mid-twenties, with flawless olive complexions, trim figures, sable tresses and sensuous lips. Now Spyglass was a very happily married man who had never strayed once from hearth and home. Still, he had an eye for pretty ladies and no inhibitions about innocent enjoyment of their company.

Wendy explained that she would be standing in for her boss and reading the questions he would ask live in the studio when the feature was broadcast in a few days time. The video footage they would shoot now would be spliced into the program at appropriate spots.

"That's pretty straightforward," Spyglass asked. "Shall we begin?"

The theme of the interview was "Ivory tower tyranny: are our centers of higher learning becoming more authoritarian?" Besides Spyglass, four other senior academics from all over the country were being canvassed for their views.

Harlequin glasses perched on the bridge of her elegant nose, Wendy read Reggie Sayyid's questions from a yellow legal pad. They dealt with what Sayyid considered to be the growing abuse of academe's authority over its students. Spyglass grew more and more uncomfortable as he fielded these loaded questions.

"No, it isn't true that professors are forcing their students, directly or indirectly, to espouse their political views on pain of poor grades. The charter of Hebrides College states explicitly that matters of religious and political belief are beyond the pale and do not enter the lecture hall under any circumstances. Breaching of this rule is an extremely serious business and can lead to severe punishment, up to and including dismissal, even for tenured staff."

"One more point, Dean Spyglass. It's come to our attention that one of your students, a young African-American man by the name of Wilson Drago, was summarily suspended for disputing a point too heatedly with his instructor. Don't you think this is an overreaction on the part of the college administration?"

With an effort, Spyglass repressed an intemperate retort.

"May I ask the source of your information?" he asked in a somewhat strangled voice.

"The Hebrides Union of Black Students," she replied.

"Yes, HUBS is well known to me," Spyglass said dryly. "Well, Ms. Solomon, there are several errors in your assertion. To begin with, the name of the student in question is Wilfred Dargoon, not Wilson Drago. Secondly, the 'heated dispute' you refer to consisted of slapping the instructor in the face, a thoroughly unprovoked act. Thirdly, he was not 'summarily' suspended but enjoyed due process in a disciplinary committee and was penalized by suspension in the light of a similar offense last year, when he was reprimanded and warned that repetition would result in condign punishment. And now, Ms. Solomon, with your kind permission, I think that will be all for today."

"Oh, Dean Spyglass," she exclaimed in obvious distress, "I'm so sorry to have upset you."

"You didn't upset me, Ms. Solomon," he said, somewhat mollified, removing the microphone clipped to his lapel, "If anyone did, it's your Mr. Sayyid who wrote these questions. You're just his mouthpiece and, as such, you didn't offend me."

"Please call me Wendy," she said. "And even so, I feel responsible for what was obviously a faux pas. Please let me try to make amends."

"How do you intend to do that, Wendy?" he asked with a smile.

"Let me buy you a drink," she offered, smiling in return.

"Well, that's an offer I find hard to refuse," he said. "I know a nice little bar a block from the campus."

Twilight was descending when they emerged from Shelby Hall. They strolled side by side down the greensward and stepped up to the sidewalk. As they did so, a helmeted cyclist on a racer whizzed past them, so close that if Spyglass hadn't pulled Wendy aside she would have been knocked down. As he held her in his arms, a flashbulb went off somewhere to the side and, when he turned his head in that direction, the photographer had taken to his heels and was already beyond reach and identification.

"What was that?" the startled Wendy asked.

"A photo, I suspect," Spyglass replied grimly, "That I won't be able to use in my presidential campaign poster."

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