When Julian Carson returned to his office in the Chemistry and Physics Building after lunch he found an e-mail waiting for him on his computer. It was from the chancellor’s office, and it had all of the formal boilerplate that was automatically added to anything originating there. There was Office of the Chancellor of the Arkansas State University and the address, phone number, and e-mail address of the chancellor’s office.
At first Julian wasn’t very interested because the chancellor’s office included pretty much everything that went on in the administration building, including the budget, the contracts and grants office, and the recruiting office.
He began to scan the message lazily, but then he sat up and read it carefully. It was addressed to Mr. Julian Carson, and it was from the vice chancellor for Campus Support, the administrator in charge of facilities.
“Dear Mr. Carson,” it said. “Please come to the Campus Support Office, Admin Room 310, at 2:00 p.m. today, December 12, for a meeting. You will be engaged for approximately one hour, so please clear your schedule from 2:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.”
He looked at his watch. It was after one. He checked his schedule for the afternoon to be sure he was free, and then printed the e-mail and went to the Chemistry and Physics Department office.
He knocked on the door of Helen, the chairman’s administrative assistant. She called, “Come in.” And he entered. She was, as usual, running figures on her computer and scribbling notes on a scratch pad, trying to devise ways to make the department’s budget accommodate everything—faculty, supplies, scientific equipment. “Hi, Julian. What’s up?”
“I got an e-mail that says I’ve got to go to a meeting at the vice chancellor’s office, from two to three.”
She glanced up at him and held out her hand for the paper. She read it quickly and handed it back. “Safety,” she said. “That’s my guess. You’re the designated person to handle and store dangerous chemicals and fool with high voltage and all that.”
“Would all the people who do that fit in his office?”
“The English Department doesn’t usually have anything that blows up. Maybe they’re organizing an emergency planning team for disasters or something. You’re not in trouble, or they would have told me too. Do I need to assign somebody to take your place while you’re gone?”
“I don’t think so. I thought I’d put a note on my door that I’ll be back at three.”
“Good idea. Enjoy the extra hour of sleep.”
“Thanks.”
He left Helen’s office, went back to his own, and posted his note, then walked across the campus.
When Julian got to the office of the vice chancellor at 1:55 p.m., he entered and found himself in a waiting room with a receptionist’s desk without a receptionist. He sat down in one of the chairs along the wall.
At 2:00 p.m. the inner office door opened and the vice chancellor came out. Julian stood, but the vice chancellor walked past him as though he were invisible and went out the door. Julian heard a sound, turned to look in the direction of the inner office, and saw three men come out—Mr. Ross, Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Prentiss. Apparently he was in trouble after all. But he had been misleading them and wasting their time, so the only real surprise was where they had turned up.
“Hello, Mr. Carson,” said Mr. Ross. “How have you been?”
“Okay,” said Julian. He glanced at the door where the vice chancellor had gone. He was making sure nobody got between him and the exit.
“Vice Chancellor Halgren was Captain Halgren once. He was happy to lend us his office and his employee for one hour.”
“What for?” asked Julian.
“Just a little chat,” Mr. Ross said. “Come on in.”
They went into the inner office. Julian looked at the dark wood furniture and paneling, and the full bookcases. All of the books came in identical sets, and no book looked as though it had ever been touched. He sat at the table and waited.
Mr. Prentiss lifted a hard-sided briefcase to the surface of the table, and then worked a combination. He opened the briefcase, took out a thick blue file, and set it on the table in front of Mr. Ross. Then he set the briefcase on the floor.
Mr. Ross tapped his fingers on the thick file. “This,” he said, “is something we had to work very hard to get our hands on. We wanted to give you a chance to take a look.”
“What is it?”
“The old man’s army personnel file. It’s got his service record, from his signed oath to preserve and defend us from all enemies, foreign and domestic, all the way to a copy of his DD-214. It’s also got records of his contract work for military intelligence, including his final mission, the one to Libya.”
Julian kept his face blank. “Why would I want to see that? I’m not working for military intelligence anymore. I don’t care about the old man.”
Mr. Ross stopped drumming his fingers on the file and held it with both hands. “I don’t really claim to understand you, Mr. Carson. You did a good job of finding our man twice. You took a pair of Libyan agents to his house in Chicago. You got him to a meeting in San Francisco. You nearly froze to death taking a special ops rifle squad to his cabin in the mountains. Then you got frustrated and quit. You came back to your hometown and married a pretty girl. That’s not you.”
“What doesn’t fit me?”
“You haven’t forgotten about the old man. You’re still looking for him.”