They'd have his head on a platter.

One of the archivists interrupted his thoughts. “It’s four forty-five, everyone,” the man announced to the room. “Everyone wrap up, please. We’ll be closing at five.”

Around him the other researchers put away their notes and books. Lester returned his box to the desk and then prepared to leave.

He was proud of his little discovery of the automatic writing. He wondered if Morris would pleased.

Probably not.

The mild sense of satisfaction he’d gotten from his work evaporated. No, Morris wouldn’t care in the least. Worse, Morris and the rest of his dissertation committee … Linda Putridrine, Susan Forrester…would soon have his head on a platter. They’d cut it off and leave it bleeding.

His hopes for a degree were as dead as, well, as any of Decuir’s unfortunate friends and family. It was only a matter of time.

He made his way to the parking lot and his car. The engine turned over with the choking death rattle of an ill-maintained and elderly vehicle. Yes, they’d have his head. Sliced off and spilling gray matter on the street.

He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. For the first two years of his time at the University, he had been quite happy. The professors had seemed to like him. His grades had been fine. Oh, there had been problems now and then. There was the time he’d lost his temper during a visit by a semi-important scholar. But, he apologized to her and everyone else a dozen times. There were papers that hadn’t been particularly well liked, but that’s the norm. So, on average, everything had been more or less fine.

Then, a year and a half ago, he had written a proposal for his dissertation. Everyone seemed pleased with it. He had shown it to the members of his committee—his major professor, Forester, plus Linda Putridrine and Morris. No one had objected. Everyone had an opportunity to criticize the piece if they’d wanted. But, he’d heard nothing.

So, came the day when he was supposed to present and defend it. To his horror, and in front of all the other graduate students, they’d ripped him to shreds. Forester had sat, expressionless, silent, watching him perish. Avuncular Morris had announced behind his blubber and his mustache that, alas, there was no dissertation here. Putridrine was worse of all. She was all but frothing at the mouth. How dare he assume that … didn’t he know that . . . how could he begin to believe that . . . was he really so fantastically stupid?

He left the room in shock. Behind him he’d heard the twitters of one or two of the other graduate students—the young, pretty women that Morris seemed to always have around him, in spite or because of his girth. On the days that followed, he asked around . . . discretely . . . and, yes, it soon became apparently that those other students had known what was coming already. They’d been told what to expect.

He, alone, was to be surprised that day. He had been set up to take a fall. For a time, he’d considered leaving the program. But, no. He was strong (he said). That was the kind of thing you had to expect in the academy. From women, particularly. They were busy showing that they were every bit as tough as men. Tougher!

But, then . . .

There had followed a year of rewrites, and more rewrites—not of the dissertation, just of the proposal. Each time he’d turn in one version, they’d demand yet another. He had done it now, he thought, just about eight times.

Slowly, even he was beginning to get the message.

He turned a corner and came to his apartment building. It was a little sixteen-plex in the student ghetto. He was startled to realize that there was a fire engine and police cars out in front, their red, flashing lights illuminating the late afternoon twilight.

What in the world?